


In Pursuit of the Extraordinary

by blainedarling



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Zayn, Circus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, OT5 Friendship, Switching, Zayn-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6457318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blainedarling/pseuds/blainedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn is eight years old when he realises that he’s different. Contortion comes as naturally to him as walking does to most people—what doesn’t come naturally is acceptance from people around him. His family find it odd and the children at school think he’s a freak. The closest he comes to acceptance in his time at high school is through his gym teacher, Dave, who teaches him how to train his body and respect his gift; and Harry, a beautifully wild boy he meets by chance at a party who, too, has a secret talent. It's years before he'll see Harry again and find a place where he can excel at his talents. </p><p>A Zayn-centric story about the struggles of being different or unusual, and finding family in unexpected places. </p><p>♫ LISTEN WHILE YOU READ: <i><a href="http://8tracks.com/lirries/i-don-t-know-what-normal-is">I don't know what normal is</a></i> (8tracks)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part i.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to say firstly that I am not a contortionist myself, nor do I possess any of the other talents I describe in this story. I've tried to research as much as I can and base acts off what I've seen performed but I apologise if any of this is inaccurate/impossible. 
> 
> This story has been my love-child for months now that all began with my first experience seeing [Limbo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lo3oANTgU8) perform—it's circus, but it's sexy circus. If you ever get the chance to see them, I would highly recommend! 
> 
> Lots of love to my beta, Isabelle—I certainly won't stop you from hitting Jodie with a bus. To Rue for her help and excitement. And, of course, to Salem for the awesome playlist to go with this.

**part i.**

 

_“If you are not willing to risk the unusual, you will have to settle for the ordinary.”_

 

Zayn is eight years old when he realises that he’s different.

And it’s not because he looks at his school photo and sees that he is dark in contrast to the next fair-skinned girl beside him, her pristine pigtails helping him to shrink back into the middle row. And it’s not because he has words tucked close to his heart, on the tip of his tongue— _hayya'alas salah, hayya'alal falah_ —where the elderly couple across the street wear silver crosses against their chests and shuffle to church on Sunday mornings when his house is just waking up.

He realises he’s different when he turns his upper body a perfect one hundred and eighty degrees on the stool he’s perched on to reach down and retrieve the blue crayon he’d dropped. Turns with one leg tucked up under his bum and the other dangling down the side of the stool. Behind him, his eldest sister shrieks and the glass of juice she’d been bringing to him smashes to the ground.

The sound summons their mother immediately: her concerned eyes flicker from the glass on the floor, to the squash seeping into the carpet, and finally up to Zayn. Zayn sits perfectly still. His torso remains turned toward them but he is sat upright; the crayon is clutched tightly in his right hand.

“We need to take him to a hospital,” Doniya stammers. She looks pale and her hand shakes where it’s still poised mid-air even with the glass long gone from her grip.

Zayn frowns. “But there’s nothing wrong with me,” he protests in a small voice.

“Zayn, sweetheart. Just turn around and sit still a moment. Let’s get this glass off the floor before someone hurts themselves.”

They take him to the doctor, first—his mum and his baba. Doniya stays at home with Waliyha, who seems too preoccupied with asking repeatedly why the carpet smells like blackcurrant to be too concerned with how they hustle Zayn out of the house and towards the car.

Zayn breathes out a circle of condensation over the window as they pull out of their driveway. He scrubs his forefinger through it and draws a little man with a smiley face. He glances over at his parents, their terse frowns and low voices as they try and talk without him listening in. Turning back to his picture, he breathes out anew over the face and redraws it, this time with the man’s mouth turned down into a worrisome expression.

They don’t have to wait long before they’re seen to—not even enough time for Zayn to muster up the courage to push past the other little boy by the toy box and pick out something to play with. He stumbles along next to his mum, one hand latched onto the material of her coat.

Dr. Hajeed has been their doctor as long as Zayn can remember. He’s got a big, bushy beard and warm eyes and Zayn can spy his pack of stickers on the desk. He only gives them out to his very best patients—or, at least, that’s what he tells Zayn. Zayn _always_ gets a sticker.

“Hello, Zayn,” he says with a smile, ruffling his short hair and shutting the door behind them all before turning to his mother. “Have you been watching his vitamin C intake like I suggested?”

“It’s not about that.”

Zayn clambers up onto his baba’s knee. There are only two chairs and the scary bed. He doesn’t like the scary bed. The last time he had to get up there, Dr. Hajeed poked and prodded his stomach so many times he threw up all over himself and then burst into tears. He leans back against his baba’s chest, tuning out his mum and the doctor’s conversation.

“Baba?”

“Hmm?” He wraps an arm around his torso gently.

“Will I get a sticker, do you think? I got a Spiderman one last time. It was so cool!” Zayn grins, pushing at his loose tooth at the front of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. He wishes it would fall out already. Then the tooth fairy will come. Last time he got a whole pound coin and Doniya scowled because she said she used to only get fifty pence when she lost her teeth.

“Maybe, _jaan_. You’ll have to be good, won’t you?”

Zayn nods. “I’ll be good,” he murmurs, huffing out a sigh so that his chest puffs out all big for a moment.

“Sunshine?” His mum smiles at him. “Zayn, can you show the doctor what you did earlier? At the house?”

Zayn sits up, nervous. “I—I don’t know what I did. I just picked up the crayon and Doniya screamed.” He winces at the memory.

She stands up. “Sit here and then lean back to pick up…” She trails off, reaching for a pen from the desk. She places it on the floor. “Can you do that for us?”

Zayn nods, even though he doesn’t understand. He’s sure he learned to pick things up _years_ ago. Even Waliyha can pick things up without dropping them now and she’s barely learned to talk in full sentences. Maybe Doniya should be the one who has to see the doctor. She’s the one who can’t keep things in her hands.

He doesn’t say that, though. He wants a new sticker; his Spiderman one from his last visit is all dried up and crinkled now.

He pulls himself up onto the chair and sits just as he did earlier, with one leg tucked up and the other free. Twisting himself around, he picks up the pen and sits back up again. When he looks up, Dr. Hajeed is looking at him intently, dark eyebrows all but disappeared into his hairline.

“That’s quite something,” he comments, glancing up at Zayn’s parents. “That’s— I can’t say I’ve ever seen that before.”

“Is there something wrong with him? Has he broken something? He shouldn’t be able to move like that, should he?”

Zayn’s hand clamps tightly around the pen. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” he says loudly. “Nothing. I’m _normal._ ” He blinks a few times, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“No, no, sweetheart, I didn’t mean it like that,” his mum assures him quickly, warm hands coming down over his shoulders. “You’re perfect. Always will be.”

Zayn sniffles, looking down at the pen. He doesn’t even want the sticker anymore. He just wants to go home.

“Zayn?”

Dr. Hajeed is holding out the sticker box to him. “Would you like to go and play in the waiting room while I talk to your mum and dad?”

***

It’s a few years before he learns that he’s a front-bender and that he has a preference for right-shoulder dislocation. The second one comes as a bit of a surprise, even to him. He watches his limb pop out of the socket, the curve of it beneath his skin, stretched taut over the bone. He slowly clicks it back into place and the only discomfort he feels is a light ache in his shoulders. The shudder down his spine he’s sure is nothing but a morbid fascination with the things his body is capable of.

It’s his baba that hates it most of all. Zayn’s rarely seen him get angry: once, maybe, when Zayn broke the window at the back of the house with a frisbee. Then colour flared beneath his skin and his voice was rough and harsh and unforgiving, echoing in his ears long after his mum wrapped him up in his arms and promised him that it was an accident, that it was alright.

But his baba gets angry, now. He gets angry when Zayn reaches across the dinner table and his elbow bends back by accident, telling him to ask next time, not to make his sisters uncomfortable at the dinner table. He gets angry when Zayn trips over the stairs and catches himself in the splits at the bottom, barking that their house is not a training ground.

He’d get angry if he knew that Zayn tells Safaa bedtime stories and acts out the elephant with one leg looped around the back of his neck, but Zayn doesn’t tell him about that.

Safaa is the only one who really enjoys it, who revels in it the same way that Zayn does. As far as she knows, Zayn’s always been like this, her big brother with the bendy bones that he can twist and tie up to make her giggle and clap her hands. She’s too young to pick up on how their mother tenses when Zayn’s joints click or Doniya and Waliyha’s choruses of disgust when he stretches and his spine curls naturally.

Zayn is Safaa’s favourite. Or, at least, that’s what she tells him with the big, drooling kisses she presses to his cheeks and her babbling coos of “again, again!” He cuddles her close and whispers “okay, little elephant” into her downy hair.

Maybe the problem isn’t that he can do it, maybe the problem is that he likes to. But he likes having something that makes him different, that makes him _unique_. He’s not allowed to contort at school anymore—he did at his first school and now he doesn’t go there anymore. He likes to sit in class and know he has a secret, he has a talent in the very fabric of his DNA that no one else around him has.

He’s _special._

Zayn turns eleven and moves to secondary school. He makes a friend, a boy called Matt who tells him he has a secret. Zayn tells him that he has one, too. Zayn tells his one first— _shows_ him his secret, slipping off his school blazer to bend forward and knot his legs behind his head.

Matt throws up, runs away, and Zayn returns home with scratch marks over his arm and a bruise blooming on his jaw. He doesn’t go back to that school.

He has to take two buses now. He takes the bus with Doniya to her school—his old school—and then he takes another bus and goes to his new school. His new school is made of glass and has four floors and everyone wears their uniform properly, with their ties knotted in a half Windsor at the hollow of their throat.

Zayn doesn’t talk to anyone. He doesn’t try and make any friends. Not with the memory of the look on his parents’ face when they’d signed the forms on his transfer. They think he didn’t hear them, that he didn’t hear what they said, but he did.

_If this happens again, we’ll have to move._

_We can’t afford to._

_We’ll_ have _to._

 

***

Zayn hates P.E. with a passion. He can’t swim, so he’s made to run cross-country, even in the winter months when the ground is thick with mud and there’s a fine layer of drizzle hanging over the grounds. His legs don’t coordinate at the best of times—not like this, not for _running_. His flexibility doesn’t help here; it does nothing to stop him from folding and falling face first into the mud. He returns back to school shaking and shivering, dirt caked into his hair and stinging the corners of his eyes.

They tell him next term he can try team sports. After 3 months, he still hasn’t scored a single hoop in basketball and his team will actively get _him_ out when it’s dodgeball.

Gymnastics gets added to the curriculum and everyone groans. Zayn is the first to sign up.

He’s not the most typical of teachers, the new P.E. teacher who’s brought in for his specialty in gymnastics. “Call me Dave,” is the first thing he says to them, on a crisp September afternoon, sunlight streaming in through the windows of the gym. “Mr. Oldham is my dad. Call me Dave.”

They start with a small vault. Maddie, a girl with bright red hair and braces who’s in Zayn’s English class, volunteers to go first. She catches her leg on the vault and topples onto the crash mat on the other side. “Dave, I think I broke my ankle,” she croaks from the floor.

Zayn worries that that might be the end of _call me Dave_ and his Thursday afternoon gymnastics classes. But it turns out it’s not even a sprain, barely a bruise really, and Dave keeps his job. Maddie switches back to swimming and comes to after-school club smelling like chlorine that makes Zayn’s nose wrinkle up.

Dave likes Zayn, unsurprisingly. He keeps Zayn back one afternoon and tells him he could be a gymnast. Some of his classmates are still lingering in the gym, practicing on the balance beams, but Dave ignores them as he loops his arm around Zayn’s shoulders.

“Seriously, that kind of flexibility and ease in your body is the kind of thing that many gymnasts work towards for _years_. You have a gift, Zayn.”

Zayn shrugs, scuffing his gym shoes into the wooden floorboards. “I don’t really think I want to be a gymnast, though. I can do—” He bites his lip, glancing back towards the group of girls, the last stragglers left besides him. They’re giggling and pink-cheeked. He thinks maybe Lucy has a crush on _call me Dave_ which is a bit weird because he’s twice their age. “I can do other things.”

Dave stops, taking his arm back. “What kind of other things?” He looks curious, rather than repulsed.

Zayn doesn’t take much consolation from that fact—isn’t that usually how it starts off? He takes a breath. “I can contort, a little.”

“How much is a little?”

“I can tie my legs behind my head?”

Dave curses loudly and then slaps a hand over his mouth. The giggling from the other side of the room increases tenfold. “Can I see?”

Zayn glances over at the girls and then down at himself. “Uh. It’s only, I’m wearing quite loose shorts.” He flushes pink, looking over at the girls. “They’ll probably, like, bunch up and…”

“Right,” Dave glances back over his shoulder. “Don’t want to show off the goods before purchase.”

Zayn splutters. He takes back every nice thought he’s ever had about Dave.

“I’ll find you some gymnast shorts for next week and then let’s see what you can do.” He notices Zayn’s expression. “Maybe without the audience, too?”

Zayn nods gratefully and murmurs his thanks before he heads towards the door.

“Okay, girls, Zayn’s going, you can all leave now. I know you’re all totally in love with him and that’s why you’re hanging around, right?”

Zayn bolts before he can hear anymore, the sound of the girls’ giggles ringing in his ears the whole way home.

***

He tells his family that he’s joined the chess club. Doniya tells him he’s a dork but his mum looks pleased so he considers it a solid excuse for why he stops going to after-school club on Thursdays now.

Dave, for his part, goes from knowing very little about contortion one week to seemingly having swallowed a glossary by the next time they meet. It’s largely things Zayn’s learned himself, from hours researching on their slow, dial-up computer at home, worried that every hiss and crackle of the internet connecting up would alert his parents to what he had found. Pictures of contortionists and the weird and wonderful shapes they could manipulate their bodies into; things to mimic, to aspire to.

He brings Zayn shorts, though, in a material that melds to his thighs and stops him from any uncomfortable situations as he curls his body upwards and twists his ankles behind his head.

“How have you been warming up, previously?”

Zayn looks up from where he had been sliding his hand over the satin texture of the shorts. “What do you mean?”

“Regular kind of stretching or do you have a particular routine?”

Zayn opens and shuts his mouth like a guppy fish caught out of the water. “I just do it, I don’t— I don’t really warm up.”

Dave’s eyes nearly bug out of his head as he sinks to sit on his knees on the wooden floor. “Okay.” His voice sounds strangled. “Lesson number one: always warm up. Or, one day, you _are_ going to hurt yourself.”

Zayn rolls his eyes but stretches his fingers down to his toes with his legs kept straight and breathes in and out for a few seconds, just to keep him happy.

Dave works with him, every Thursday for almost three years, pushing his limits and testing his strengths. Most important of all, he helps Zayn unscramble his limbs when he gets stuck, right arm stuck out at a funny angle and a muffled gasp of “help, please”.

It doesn’t take him long to pick up on the way that Zayn shrinks into himself when there are other people around. Zayn won’t perform or volunteer during the class, even though all his classmates at least know how adept he is to the gymnastic moves they’ve been taught over the years.

Dave tries to get him to contort, to show them the way he can mould his body, but he must realise it’s a futile effort from the start.

Zayn shuts down at the suggestion, stuffing his joggers on top of the shorts and grabbing his schoolbag, mumbling some excuse about having to get home early that day. In the space of the gym, between him and Dave, his ability to contort isn’t something he’s ashamed of. He loves it, he truly honestly loves it, but that doesn’t stop the ripple of shame that crawls under his skin when he imagines anyone finding out. Anyone _seeing_.

“What are you so afraid of, Zayn?” Dave has a hand locked around Zayn’s wrist today, so he can’t get away. He’s trapped. “They’re your friends.”

Zayn manages to wriggle free, wrapping his arms around himself. In training his body to contort, he’s gotten stronger. Taller, too, with the growth spurt of the last summer. “They’re not my friends. They’re people I go to school with. None of them know anything about me.”

“Have you tried changing that? Making an effort to open up a little? I’m not _really_ supposed to hear these things but I have heard whispers of a Year 11 Halloween party happening this weekend.”

Zayn has heard about it, too, but only because everyone is talking about it. Not because he’s been invited.

“It’s the last year, Zayn. For all of you. Things will be different when you’re at sixth form college.”

Zayn scowls. “Stop looking at me like that. What do you suggest? That I should turn up dressed like someone from the circus and start wheeling around the house? Let them all yell _circus freak!_ at me and pretend they’re laughing with me and not _at_ me?” He sneers.

“I’m saying you shouldn’t let something you love doing isolate you from the rest of your peers.”

Zayn’s hands curled up tightly at his sides. “You don’t get it.”

Dave sighs. “Just think about it, okay? There’s a lot more to you than just your contortion. I’d hate for people to miss out on that because you think you have nothing else to offer.”

***

“Are you doing special anything tonight, sunshine?”

Zayn pokes at his sandwich and hums noncommittally. He picks a bit of mould off the crust and flicks it towards the bin.

“No plans with your chess club friends?” His mum presses. Her hand lingers in between his shoulder blades. She rubs his back gently.

“Not really,” he mumbles. “Might just stay here. I could take Saf trick-or-treating, if you want.”

His mum frowns. “Well, that would be lovely but I’m sure you’d rather go and see your friends. You never seem to spend any time with them outside of your practices.”

“That’s because they’re the _chess club_ ,” Doniya remarks as she walks in. She’s in her last year of sixth form college now, which officially means she's Too Cool For Everyone.

“Doniya,” their mum chastises. “Why don’t you take him along with you?”

_“Mum,”_ Zayn and Doniya groan in unison.

“What? It seems like Zayn doesn’t have any other offers and you’ve been raving about this party for _weeks._ Sounds like it’ll be fun!”

“I do have other offers,” Zayn huffs. “There’s the Year 11 party.”

Doniya snorts. “As if you’ve been invited to Jack Roth’s Year 11 party.” Their mum shoots her a stern look and she sighs, her shoulders slumping. “ _Fine_. You can come. But you have to wear a costume, it’s the rules.”

“I don’t have a costume.” Zayn regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth when he sees the grin on his sister’s face.

*

In the end, Zayn lets Doniya do his make-up for him—an intricate skull design on his face that accentuates his cheekbones and makes his skin spookily pale compared to his neck. He pairs it with a black sweatshirt and black jeans and Safaa helps to stick lengths of white masking tape over the material to look like bones.

“Aw,” Doniya coos loudly as she finishes buffing the face paint into his skin. “I can feel the beginnings of stubble here, Zed! You’re going to have to start shaving soon. Mum, come feel, baby Zaynie is growing up.”

“Get off me,” Zayn whines, pushing her away and folding his arms over his chest stubbornly.

His dad makes a pleased sound from where he’s sat in front of the football and Zayn only just makes it to the door before his mum can try and leave a lipstick mark on his painted cheek.

It’s only a short walk from their house to that of the girl hosting the Year 13 party. Their street and the next are brightly lit up with carved pumpkins in the windows, children still scurrying from house to house lugging their buckets full of sweets, even though it’s getting late. Safaa had given herself a stomachache with how many of hers she’d devoured after returning home, witch’s hat askew on her little head and falling into her eyes.

“Can you just try and be normal tonight?”

Zayn looks up and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “What do you mean?” He knows what she means—she means don’t freak her friends out or make her look bad by contorting, by accident or otherwise.

Doniya purses her lips together. “Just don’t be weird, okay?”

“Okay,” Zayn responds in a small voice. He follows her up the path littered with fallen autumn leaves to a door, propped open with an unlit but carved pumpkin. The noise of the party seeps out onto the street, the low beat of the bass pushing up through the soles of his feet as they step inside.

The hallway is packed with people and Zayn instantly shrinks into himself a little. He’s never been that great around large groups of people, typically falling quiet until he can adjust and find his place in amongst the people around him. Made infinitely easier when there isn’t so many people there in the first place.

He curls his hand around Doniya’s wrist. She turns back to him and he looks at her with pleading eyes.

_Don’t leave me._

She nods and smiles softly, slipping her hand into his and tugging him into the house. Where Zayn is lost, stumbling over his feet as he passes unfamiliar faces in costumes that vary from threatening to provocative, Doniya seems to know everyone. People call out to her as she passes, complimenting her costume—full on zombie bride _à la_ Lindsay Lohan in _Mean Girls_ —blowing her kisses. No one spares Zayn so much as a second glance.

“Don!”

“Gems!” Doniya tugs him into the corner of the living room, toward a girl with long blonde hair. Her skin glitters in the low light and there’s a large pair of fairy wings on her back.

Zayn recognises her vaguely. He thinks he’s seen her come round the house with Doniya after one of their shopping trips, bags from New Look smuggled under their coats as they run in before their mum can give Doniya hell for spending all her pocket money again. But the boy next to her he doesn’t recognise at all.

He’s tall, with long lanky legs. There’s a roundness to his cheeks that’s emphasised by the deep dimples that press into his face as he smiles at them. He’s dressed—quite convincingly—as a pirate, complete with a large gaudy hat with a feather, and a clip-on earring dangling from his right ear. His cream coloured shirt is open over his chest and there’s a plastic toy sword around his waist. His eyes are bright and a little red and before he gets as a far as a hello, he hiccups loudly.

The boy giggles and smacks a hand over his mouth, mumbling an apology. Gemma just rolls her eyes.

“This my brother, Harry. You must be Zayn—don’t think we’ve ever properly met.” Gemma’s eyes sparkle like her make-up as she grins at him. “How old are you now?”

“Sixteen.”

“Harry’s fifteen.”

“I’m nearly sixteen!” Harry pipes up, a small frown knitting at his eyebrows.

Zayn doesn’t bother to contest that, if Harry wants to get technical about it, then he’s nearly seventeen.

“Don, Tommy’s here. Do you reckon I should go talk to him?” Gemma takes the place Zayn had been occupying by Doniya’s side and, just like that, the two boys are forgotten as the girls move off, arms linking, heads bent together as they gossip.

Harry touches a hand to Zayn’s arm and he looks up. “Do you want a drink?”

*

The boys find themselves outside. It’s uncharacteristically warm for October, although Zayn is sure Harry must be at least a little cold in such thin clothes. He supposes it’s the alcohol keeping him warm, a plastic cup with a small crack in the rim tucked between his thighs as he gesticulates wildly.

He gesticulates a lot when he talks, Zayn’s learned. It’s one of the many things he’s learned about Harry in the past hour or so that they’ve been sat together, Zayn sipping slowly at the peach-flavoured concoction Harry had mixed for him. The alcohol is warming his tummy and his limbs feel drowsy, but otherwise he feels fine. Harry seems drunker than him, but Zayn thinks that part of it might just be _Harry_.

His cheeks have taken on a rosy glow and his lips are shiny from where he licks at them between thoughts. Harry’s lips are such a perfect shade of pink and Zayn catches himself staring. Catches himself wondering how they’d feel pressed to his own, how they’d _taste._

_Well. That’s new_ .

Zayn’s thought about it before, of course. But usually, if he’s thinking about kissing someone, it’s Halle Berry. Or maybe Jodie, in his year: a blonde girl with a pierced nose and her white school shirt stretched tight over her chest. But mostly Halle Berry.

Definitely not someone like Harry. That’s… It’s new, that’s all. He isn’t alarmed by it, just curious. Is that a thing now, or is it just Harry?

“You’re very pretty,” Zayn blurts out without really meaning to, cutting off Harry’s stream of chatter that he hadn’t really been listening to anyhow.

Harry beams. “Thanks.” He tips his head close so their noses bump together and giggles. “So are you.”

Zayn can feel Harry’s hot breath over his mouth and smell peach in the space between them. He lets his eyes flutter half closed and hesitantly presses forward.

“Do you want to see something cool?”

Zayn blinks. “Huh?”

Harry’s sat back, but the grin remains. “Come on. I want to show you something.” He wraps a hand around Zayn’s wrist and tugs him to his feet. He abandons his cracked cup on the kitchen counter when they get inside and starts rootling around in the drawers, seemingly throwing them open at random.

Zayn leans against the island in the middle of the kitchen and sips at his drink. It’s almost too sweet, really, but he’s nervous now. His stomach’s fluttering with something new, something different, and he can’t take his eyes off Harry. At least the achingly sweet drink and the kick of the cheap and sugary peach schnapps serves as a distraction.

“So, when I was little, I used to put things in my mouth a lot.” Harry turns around, wielding a bread knife.

Zayn’s eyes bug out of his head. He isn’t sure he wants to know where Harry’s going with this. “Right?”

“I mean all kids do, you know? Crayons and stuff. That’s normal. ‘cept I realised I could stick things right down my throat. My gag reflex is basically non-existent,” Harry declares proudly.

Zayn chokes, heat rising to his cheeks. The drink is sticky as it dribbles down his chin. Fortunately, Harry doesn’t notice as he’s busy smothering the bread knife in vegetable oil. He doesn’t really have time to stop and linger on _no gag reflex, no gag reflex, no gag reflex_ which is a lot, because Harry’s got the tip of the knife dangling over his open mouth and Zayn lunges to knock it out of the way.

“Harry, no,” Zayn says firmly. He gets a hand around the knife and takes it away from him.

“I can do it, honest!” Harry protests. There’s a curl in his eyes, fallen free from the scarf.

Zayn resists the urge to tuck it back for him. “I believe you,” he tells him honestly. He’s seen weird things, he knows weird. Knows better than anyone the way the human body can give and take and be manipulated in ways one might not expect. “But you’ve been drinking.”

“The alcohol loosens your throat. I always gargle a bit before I do it,” Harry protests but he’s stopped reaching for the knife. His bottom lip is stuck out a little petulantly, his hands twisted in front of him.

Zayn chuckles. “Yeah? What, a sip? Not…” He gestures to Harry’s abandoned cup. He sets the knife down and touches his fingers to Harry’s elbow gently. “Show me another time, yeah? Sounds ace.”

Harry nods and pushes the curl back. He grabs a bottle from the counter: it’s half-full of clear liquid and the label on the front is a little torn. It smells like paint thinner and Zayn tries not to gag. Harry takes a sip straight from the bottle and moves closer to Zayn, tipping the bottle to his lips.

Zayn winces as the cheap vodka slides down his throat, coughing. “That’s disgusting.”

Harry laughs, the bottle swinging from between his fingers as he steps in close. “Do you have any secret talents?” He murmurs. “I like finding out people’s secrets.”

Zayn swallows. _Bet you do._ He doesn’t know why he says it, but there’s something about Harry that he trusts. Even now, even after having only known him a couple of hours. “Yeah, yeah. There’s something.” He licks his lips. “Do you want to find somewhere more… Private? I could show you.”

Harry’s stood close enough that Zayn hears the way his breath hitches. “Okay,” he replies. He slips his hand through Zayn’s and entwines their fingers together. “Let’s go.”

They push through the hoards of people in the hallway to get to the stairs. It’s quieter upstairs. The bathroom door is cracked open and someone’s retching inside; a couple, unperturbed by this, sits at the top of the stairs making out sloppily.

Harry pushes open a door and pulls Zayn after him inside. He flicks on the bedside lamp and a soft glow fills the room as Zayn shuts the door behind them. “Uh, I.” Harry turns to him. He looks young as he wrings his hands together. “I want this, I just think you should know I’ve never actually done this before.”

Zayn blinks. “Done what?”

Harry looks exasperated. “I’m a virgin, okay?”

“I didn’t— I wasn’t suggesting— _Harry,_ ” Zayn stammers. He runs a hand through his hair. “That’s not why I brought you up here.”

“Oh.” Harry’s shoulders slump. He looks a little put out. “Then why did you bring me up here?”

Zayn takes a breath. “To show you something. My… Secret talent.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrow. “So, it’s not…” He trails off and gestures to Zayn’s lower half.

“No!” Zayn squawks and ducks his head to hide his flaming cheeks. “It’s got nothing to do with— _No_. Just, sit down, alright?” He toes off his shoes and sits on his bum on the floor. “Don’t freak out, okay? Promise me, Harry.”

Harry perches on the end of the bed. “I promise,” he replies quietly.

Zayn closes his eyes and slides his hands underneath his ankles and breathes in, curling his spine forward to tuck his feet behind his head. He tucks his chin to his chest and takes a few deep breaths. For a moment, he ignores everything else: the soft sound of surprise Harry lets out; the party going on outside of the door. He focuses on twisting his ankles into place around each other and pushing his weight off the floor so he rocks.

“Does that hurt?” Harry’s voice is soft and tentative, as though he’s afraid to break Zayn’s concentration.

“No,” Zayn replies easily. He’s breathing normally now that he’s settled into it, but he keeps his eyes closed. There’s still something very weird to him about staring at his own arse while he’s in this position. “My muscles get a little stiff if I do too much without warming up properly—like with any kind of sport.”

When Harry doesn’t say anything else, Zayn curls back into a normal sitting position. He rolls out his shoulders and inspects the inner seam of his jeans. It wouldn’t be the first pair of skinny jeans he’d busted open by doing something like that.

“Zayn, that’s incredible.” Harry moves to sit on his knees on the floor in front of him. “Can I ask you something?”

Zayn nods and crosses his legs underneath himself.

“Why did you want to show me that in private? Are you…” Harry pauses. “Are you ashamed of it?”

Zayn frowns. “No, not— Not ashamed. But other people don’t usually react that way you just did. It’s not something I’ve felt comfortable showing people anymore, really. Not just like some party trick.”

“It’s much more than that,” Harry murmurs, curling a hand over Zayn’s knee. “I’m sorry if people have made you feel like it’s something you have to hide.”

Zayn looks up and Harry is so close. The pink of his lips and the green of his eyes and his gaze is flickering between Zayn’s eyes and his mouth.

Harry kisses him first. At least, Zayn thinks that’s what happens. All he knows for sure is that one minute, Harry’s staring at him so close, and the next minute his eyes are slipping shut and there’s a firm, warm pressure against his mouth.

They part and Harry sits back. His cheeks are a little pinker than they were before and his right cheek is dimpling with his smile. “Was that your first kiss?”

Zayn grimaces. “That obvious?” He mumbles and rubs the back of his neck self-consciously.

Harry shakes his head and his curls bounce. “No,” he whispers. “It was perfect. Just wondered.” He cups Zayn’s face in his hands, thumbs pressing into his cheeks. “Wanna try again?” He grins.

*

Zayn thinks he could kiss Harry forever. He’s on his back on the floor, with one of Harry’s legs between his and his weight against his chest. Harry tastes like peach and booze and boy and he lets out the most wonderful little breathy moans whenever Zayn nips at his lower lip with his teeth. Zayn’s lips feel swollen and his hair is a mess from Harry tugging his fingers through it and he never wants it to end.

Harry shifts on top of him, the length of his cock pressing into Zayn’s hip. That’s something, too—Zayn had never before thought about what it might feel like to have someone else’s cock pressed up near his own. Had never realised it would be something he’d be so into. But his own cock has been aching and pushing angrily against the zip of his jeans for at least twenty minutes now and every time Harry hitches his hips forward, he’s certain he’s going to come in his jeans without even needing to get a hand on himself.

Harry fists a hand in Zayn’s decorated shirt and drags it down. He fits his mouth over Zayn’s and bites into the skin. He chooses a spot right in the centre of Zayn’s chest and sucks on the skin. It’s obscene, the sound of his mouth working over his skin, spit-slick and wet against Zayn’s chest.

Zayn’s head tips back into the carpet and he clenches one hand into a fist to try and keep himself from just rutting up against Harry until he comes in his boxers. He reckons that’s probably not a very polite thing to do to someone he only met tonight, even if he seems like he’d be into it.

“There.” Harry breathes out over the mark he’s left and it sends shivers down Zayn’s spine. “Now you have something to remember me by.”

Zayn twists a hand into Harry’s hair and drags him up to his lips. The scarf has long since been discarded when Zayn got his hand tangled in it for the third time.

Harry shifts again and this time not only does his cock press into Zayn’s hip, but his thigh presses very pointedly down between Zayn’s legs.

“Oh, fuck,” Zayn stutters, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Want you so badly,” Harry pants, repeating the movement and groaning into the corner of Zayn’s mouth. “Just like this. I’m so close,” he whispers, grinding against Zayn’s hip frantically.

Zayn’s pretty sure there are spots appearing in his vision and everything is echoey around him, just Harry’s needy whimpers and his own heavy breathing. It’s a wonder he even hears it then, the shout of his name from the hallway outside the room they’re in.

“W-wait.” Zayn holds Harry’s waist, trying to get the pressure off his cock long enough that he can actually process who and why someone is yelling his name.

“Sorry, sorry, I should have— We don’t have to, I just— _Zayn_.” Harry looks fucked out above him, his curls hanging in his face. His lips are puffy and his eyes are blown black. There’s a light sheen of sweat by his hairline.

Zayn licks his lips. “No, it’s just, I think that’s my sister out there.”

_“Zayn!”_ It’s definitely Doniya, her voice just outside the door. “Have you seen my brother? This high, very skinny, wearing a lot of black? He was with Gem’s brother?”

“Oh, I definitely saw them come up here a while ago. Have you checked the bedrooms?”

“Fuck!” Zayn squeaks and tips Harry off of him onto the floor.

Harry flails and groans as his back hits the floor. “No, no, don’t go.” He makes a grab for Zayn’s wrist and wraps his hand tight around it. “You can’t leave me.” He pouts and Zayn wants to give in.

He wants to give in but he isn’t sure he wants Doniya to catch them like this, when it’s so obvious what they’ve been doing. His skeleton make-up is bound to be smudged all across his face, revealing his red-stained cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he tells Harry and leans down to kiss him once more. Just one more.

Harry lets him go with a sigh, his hand flopping to the floor. “Definitely real life, then,” he mumbles to himself. “In the dreams, the fit guy doesn’t _leave_ halfway through.”

Zayn chuckles as he straightens out his clothes and does his best to flatten down his hair. He pauses with his hand on the door handle. “Hey, Harry?”

Harry tips his head back to look at him. “Yeah?”

“I had a lot of fun tonight. Thanks.”

Harry’s smile is a little sad. “Yeah. You too, Zayn. I’ll see you around?”

Zayn slips out of the room.

“Zayn, where have you been? Mum’s going to kill me if we’re home after curfew.” She frowns as she gets closer to him, touching a finger to his cheek. “What have you been doing? Your make-up’s all messy.”

Zayn shrugs. “Must have run from the heat or something. Come on, we should go.”

Doniya doesn’t push it as they walk the few blocks home in the dark, cool night, even though Zayn can tell she’s dying to. He asks her questions about Tommy instead. He watches the way her cheeks turn pink and her grin stretches wide across her face and wonders if that’s what he looked like after Harry kissed him for the first time.

Their mum hasn’t waited up, but there’s a note on the kitchen table saying she hopes they had fun, and two glasses of water. Doniya hands him one and heads upstairs, Zayn trailing behind as he goes to his own room.

The water soothes his dry throat and leaves him feeling clearer, but sleepy. The alcohol he’s sure has long since worn off; if anything, all he’s drunk on now is Harry. He can’t get the taste of him out of his head, nor the feel of his long, lean body. The smell in the crook of his neck and the noises he made.

Zayn downs the rest of the glass and creeps down to the bathroom to brush his teeth. It feels wrong, almost like he’s washing Harry away. He wishes there was some way he could keep him there, keep him under his skin, so that memory could never fade.

He should ask Doniya to ask Gemma for Harry’s number, Zayn tells himself. That’s a thing that he should do. Even though it sounds a little bit scary and forward. It’s a thing he should do in the morning.

He shucks off his clothes and scrubs off the remains of his make-up with the t-shirt. It’s ruined anyway from the fabric paint, so he doesn’t suppose it makes much difference now. He crawls under his duvet and snaps the light off and stares up at the ceiling.

When he sighs, the sound is loud in the small space of his bedroom. It’s too quiet, almost, just his breathing there. He wants Harry. It’s so simple but it’s so new: he’s never _wanted_ a person in the way he wants Harry now.

He groans under his breath as he feels his cock twitch in his boxers, where he’d softened before. He closes his eyes and touches his hand to the mark Harry left in the middle of his chest with his mouth, pressing down against it until he hisses and his cock is filling against his hip.

He turns his face into the pillow as he slips his hand under the waistband and wraps his fingers loosely around his cock. He bites down in the material to muffle the sound of Harry’s name there, over and over like a chant until he’s jerking and spilling over his fist, his toes curling into the mattress.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll get Harry’s number.

***

Zayn doesn’t get Harry’s number. He doesn’t even _try_. He wakes up with his come-stained boxers sticking to his crotch and by the time he gets himself showered and has stuffed his washing into one big ball into the laundry basket in the hopes that his mum won’t see, he’s already worked himself up about it.

It doesn’t help that when he gets downstairs for breakfast, Waliyha takes one look at him and bursts into high pitched giggles.

“What?” Zayn asks gruffly, stomping across the kitchen in bare feet to find a bowl.

“Don said she thinks you might have been kissing someone last night and I said there’s no way anyone would kiss _your_ ugly face and I was right because they were too busy biting you!” Waliyha finishes triumphantly.

Zayn glances down, the thin t-shirt he’d tugged on after his shower gaping low over the mark Harry had left on his chest. He swears and drops the bowl onto the counter where it clatters loudly.

“Zayn, _language_ ,” his mum chastises as she walks into the kitchen. “You alright, sunshine? Is something hurting?” She looks concerned—it probably has a lot to do with how Zayn’s clutching his t-shirt up to his neck.

“Fine, I’m fine. Just gonna get dressed proper, like. It’s cold down here,” he babbles and scrambles for the stairs.

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll do it._

***

Tomorrow comes and Zayn doesn’t get his number, but he does see him. He missed the bus because he got held back for doodling cartoons on his Maths jotter again so he’s stuck walking home. He’s dawdling over it, he knows, but he figures there’s no rush.

The autumn leaves are rotting into the ground and there’s empty conker shells scattered over the path. When he was younger, he used to always beg his mum to let him come and collect the conkers. He didn’t play them, although his dad tried more than once to teach him, inside lining them up on his bookshelf until they’d start to rot and he’d have to toss them out of the window to join the pile of leaves there.

Zayn looks up from where he’s scuffing his toes into the ground, a group of school kids attracting his attention. They’re crowded around a bench, sat nestled together, draped over one another. The sound of their laughter is loud and bright and Zayn tucks his chin into the collar of his blazer.

“Harry, you’re so gross,” a girl squeals and laughs.

Zayn’s head snaps up and through the crowd he can just see Harry. _His_ Harry, his curls ruffled in the wind, his school tie undone and loose around his neck, collar open. He’s chomping on a banana and he swallows and grins.

“What? I’m just eating,” he replies innocently and the girl beside him gives him a shove.

“Just because you have a freaky throat, doesn’t mean we want to see it!” She protests.

But it’s not harsh, it’s not cruel. It’s teasing and joking between friends and as the girl tucks her arm through Harry’s and rests her head on his shoulder, Zayn realises that Harry’s not like him.

He thought, for a while, that they were the same. Two of a kind, in a way, with their strange, secret talents, hidden from the world like superheroes. That they could be a team, maybe—like Batman and Robin except that they’d be equals and they could kiss when they wanted to.

But Harry’s not like him. Harry’s funny and charming and _popular_ , clearly. Harry’s talents are seen as entertaining and quirky; not vulgar and abnormal, like Zayn’s are.

Harry looks up from the group and Zayn quickly tears his gaze away, doubling his pace as he hurtles down the street. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t dare risk Harry seeing him and pretending he doesn’t exist. Or, worse, calling out to him, and pretending like he cares at all.

***

Zayn doesn’t have much time to think about Harry Styles when the New Year sets in and his last few months of school stretch before him. He barely has time to think about anything that isn’t Art coursework, spending far too many late nights getting paint stuck underneath his nails, or arguing with Mr. Baker, his Maths teacher, about why he’ll never need Pythagorean theory in his future life.

Dave keeps dragging him in on Thursday afternoons, though, reminding him that he needs to keep practicing and stretching regularly. It provides a welcome relief from everything else for the time he’s in the space of the gym. Nothing else but the gentle encouragement of Dave’s voice and his own breathing as he twists and contorts his body, building his limits and seeing just how far he can go. He can forget about deadlines and exams and the ridiculous revision schedule his mum drew up for him that they both know he’ll never be able to stick to, and just focus on his body.

Dave doesn’t bug him any more about how he spends his time out of school, either, clearly knowing how busy Zayn and the rest of his classmates are at this time of the year. He leaves it be until June, when Zayn slinks into the gym for the last time, his final GSCE sat and submitted. He doesn’t comment on the bags under Zayn’s eyes or the tired slump in his shoulders as he presses a hand against the middle of Zayn’s spine to help him stretch.

“I hear Jodie’s having an end-of-exams party this weekend,” Dave comments and Zayn stumbles a bit out of his position.

He brushes off his shorts and gets up to resume where he’d been curling slowly forward into an arch. “You eavesdrop too much. Should I be concerned? Reporting you for hanging around outside the girls’ bathrooms or something?”

Dave lets him go but not without a jab to his ribs. “Watch it.” He stands back and folds his arms over his chest. “I’m a teacher and teenagers gossip. I hear things even if I wouldn’t want to.” He grimaces. “Trust me, there are some things I didn’t need to know and at least half of them are to do with Molly James’ infected nipple piercing.”

Zayn snorts and closes his eyes. “That’s what you get,” he mutters and curls his hands around his ankles.

Dave hums. “So, are you going? While I appreciate your efforts into going to _a_ party last time, maybe you could choose the one with your classmates this time. I know a lot of you will end up at the same sixth form, but… It’s the end of an era, Zed. Those don’t come around all the time.”

It’s an era Zayn would rather forget. Not that it’s been altogether unpleasant—not since he moved schools, anyway. He’s pulled good grades overall, good enough to set him up for sixth form and maybe onto university, if that’s what he wants. He isn’t sure it is, though. He doesn’t know if signing himself up for another five years like the last five is what would be best for him. Five more years of studying and little more by ways of social interaction than the courteous greetings he got from his classmates at the start and end of the day. Five more years of sticking to a schedule and taking exams. It all sounds painfully monotonous.

Zayn sighs and curls up, stretching back. He’s a natural front-bender but he’s been trying to test his back-bending limits and see how his spine will react to that kind of curl. He goes slower than he would the other way, letting each notch of his spine adjust as he moves. “My last session with you and you want to spend it bickering over a party you shouldn’t even be encouraging me to go to since I’m underage?”

Dave holds up his hands. “Who said anything about _drinking?_ I’m just encouraging you to socialise with your peers. I don’t know anything about what goes on about these parties, nor do I want to.”

Zayn snorts. He pauses over one notch in spine, wincing as it pulls at his lower back. He stops and breathes, letting the oxygen flow through his bloodstream before he keeps going. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, you should wear a button-up shirt. It’d look good.” Dave’s upside down grin is wide and toothy.

“Not what I was going to ask.” Zayn huffs out a sigh and plants his palms on the wood floor of the gym. “When did you know that this is what you want to do? Teaching?”

“Those who can’t do, teach, right? And those that can’t teach, teach gym?”

“I’m serious.” Zayn moves back to a standing position and rolls out his shoulders. “My mum keeps talking about A levels and university rankings and I just…” He trails off and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Why do I just have to do what’s expected of me?”

Dave shrugs. “Who says you have to? There’s always options; especially for someone with talents like yours, Zayn. I don’t think that’s something you should just ignore. I understand it might be difficult to make your parents see that, but it’s worth trying to bring up in discussion, at least.”

In theory, Zayn agrees. In theory, Zayn knows Dave’s right. In reality, though, the idea of sitting down in front of his parents and telling them that he’d rather pursue the opportunities available to him as a contortionist rather than go to university to get a degree he doesn’t care about makes him break out into a cold sweat.

“Hi mum, dad,” Zayn declares, spreading his arms wide to the gym, empty save for Dave by his side. “I’m joining the circus.”

Dave laughs. “Might want to work on your presentation.” He wraps an arm around Zayn’s shoulders. “One day, Zed. You’ll find your place out there. And I’ll be in the front row to see how far you’ve come.”

Dave is, in many ways, like the older brother Zayn always wanted but never had. Growing up with three sisters is a challenge at times, with the constant and ever-present threat of having hairbrushes thrown at his head or to wake up with his toenails painted sparkly pink. Sometimes he just wanted to someone to run wild through the garden with him when the mud was thick from rain and grass sodden. Safaa did for a while, until she complained about getting mud on her Peppa Pig boots and decided she’d much rather hang out with Waliyha inside, in the warmth, and watch movies under the roof of their rickety blanket fort.

Maybe that’s why Zayn he decides to actually take Dave’s advice this time—that and his mum’s look of pleasant, pleased surprised when he tells her he’s thinking about going to the party. She drags him out to the shopping centre horrendously early on Saturday morning and helps him pick out a new shirt, a white button down with tortoiseshell buttons.

They wander back home through the Saturday market. His mum goes ahead to the food section but Zayn hangs back by a jewellery stand he knows Doniya likes to stop at some weekends when she comes down. He trails his hands over the thicker rings, strong silver bands with large stones, one with a skull etched into the metal.

He picks out two on a whim—the skull one and one with a large black stone—and pays before he slips the over two fingers on his right hand. He looks down at his hand as he walks, catching up to his mum.

“They’re nice,” she says absentmindedly. “Suits you, sunshine. You should wear them tonight.”

Zayn runs his thumb over the skull face. “Yeah. Should look cool with my new shirt.”

***

Molly James and her infected nipple piercing are already being helped out of the house when he arrives. She smells like vomit when Zayn walks past her and he wrinkles up his nose, leaving her friends to attend to her as he heads into the house. The hallway is mostly empty, only a few people stood here and there clutching plastic cups, and leaning against the cream walls. The pulse of the music and voices come from further in the house.

He pauses momentarily to check his reflection in the mirror by the door. His hair is getting longer, curling loosely around his ears. Doniya had attacked him with her straighteners before he’d left, despite his protests, determined to get a perfect wave into his hair. He has to admit, it looks good, framing his sharp cheekbones. The shirt fits perfectly, paired with his usual black jeans with the fraying ankles, his new rings set at the base of his fingers.

It’s a battle to get through the living room and past a game of the spin the bottle that he has absolutely no wish to get involved in but he makes it to the kitchen and picks his way through the bottles scattered across the counters.

“That stuff will make you puke.”

Zayn nearly drops the vodka bottle in surprise when he finds Jodie at his side. She’s wearing a black crop top that clings to her chest and low slung jeans. She chews loudly on her gum and tilts her head when she catches him staring, a smirk on her lips.

She bends down to pull a bottle out of one of the cupboards and Zayn quickly averts his gaze. “Drink this instead. It’s miles better.”

Zayn doesn’t know the difference between the bottle of vodka she’s handed him to the one he’d had in his hand before but he takes it and nods, splashing some into his plastic cup of Coke.

“You’re Zayn, right?”

Zayn takes a gulp of the drink before replying and wonders vaguely how long alcohol takes to hit the bloodstream. “Uh, yeah.” He doesn’t know if he should be amazed that she knows his name at all or amazed that she has to ask, when they’ve been in the same History class for the past four years.

“Obviously you know who I am.” She giggles and flashes her white teeth. “Since it’s my house and all.”

“Right.” Zayn clears his throat and stuffs his free hand into the pocket of his jeans. He should probably be at least _trying_ to flirt with her. He’s not really sure how to go about that, though.

“I didn’t think you would come. Glad you did, though.” She steps closer to him and looks up at him from under her eyelashes. “Why don’t I give you a tour? Since it’s your first time here.”

Zayn blinks. He downs his drink in one go and nods. “Yeah, okay.” He lets her put her hand into his and pull him through the house, bypassing the living room and taking him straight towards the stairs. _Fucking hell._

He’s petrified, he realises, when Jodie pulls him into what he presumes is her bedroom and closes the door behind them. But it’s different to the kind of scared he felt when Harry kissed him for the first time, his pink lips coming into focus. That was butterflies in his stomach and anticipation. This is just _scared_. And he’s not sure whether it’s because Jodie’s a girl or just because for as much as he’s appreciated her from a distance for the past four years, he doesn’t really know her at all. Not beyond the three words he just said to her in her kitchen downstairs.

She laughs at his obvious uncertainty where he hovers by the door, moving to sit on the bed and patting the space beside her. “Come on, then.”

Zayn stumbles across the room and sits down next to her, swallowing roughly around the lump in his throat. He could really do with another drink—she doesn’t have one either. “Do you want a drink? I could go get us something from downstairs, if you want.”

Jodie looks a little startled—maybe just by how many words Zayn said in a row—but then she shakes her head and grins. “No, I don’t want a drink. I’m so drunk already,” she murmurs, tugging on Zayn’s shirt collar, her long nails digging into the fabric.

She doesn’t seem _that_ drunk although Zayn can smell the booze on her breath. He lets her pull him into her, her glossy lips landing just shy of Zayn’s mouth. “Oops.” She giggles and tilts her face around to kiss him fully on the mouth this time.

Jodie’s lips taste sharp like vodka but as she slips her tongue into his mouth, the sweetness of her bubblegum takes over. Her blonde hair’s falling into her face and tickling his cheeks. “You’re so _fit_ ,” she whispers against his mouth. “When did you get so fit, Zayners?” She giggles. She slips her hand around the back of his neck to draw him back in while Zayn’s hands sit in his lap limply.

It’s not a _bad_ kiss. Her lips are plump and warm and she’s letting out these small sounds of content that Zayn really likes but it doesn’t send fire rushing through his body like it had with Harry.

She reaches down to grab his wrist without breaking the kiss and places a hand under the swell of her breast, which he appreciates because at least now he’s doing something with his hands. And that his body _definitely_ responds to, the warmth of her body as he cups a hand around her and leans into the kiss.

He uses his other hand to prop himself up against the bed but she throws him off with the long nails that scratch against his scalp and his balance slips. “Mmph,” he mumbles and frowns down at his shoulder. It’s dislocated—he can feel it under his shirt where it hangs at a funny angle. “One sec, hold on,” he tells her as she tries to grab for his face again.

She finally stops and looks at him and sits back. “Oh my god, your _arm?_ Fuck—should I call an ambulance?”

Zayn glances at her. It probably does look pretty bad, he reasons. The shirt’s white and thin so she’ll be able to see how it’s obviously out of the socket and his wrist always hangs a little limp when it happens so it looks a bit… Dead, really, against the bed. “It’s fine,” he assures her. “Happens all the time. Just give me one sec and I’ll pop it back in.”

“What the fuck?”

Zayn rolls the joint back into place and eases it back into feeling normal. He must have just pushed too far earlier when he’d been stretching in his bedroom, not warmed down properly. It happens.

“Honestly, what the fuck was that, Zayn?”

_Oh._

Jodie looks kind of pissed now, her eyebrows drawn together and she’s pulled back, arms folded tight across her chest. “Answer me!”

“It’s just a thing,” Zayn tries with a small shrug. “I’m quite, like, flexible. My joints are all a bit funny.”

Her eyes widen and her mouth gapes open. “You’re that kid from Hollybrook, aren’t you? The one who can contort? My cousin went to that school and told me all about this little kid who left because he freaked out all the kids by doing freaky shit with his body. You’re _him_.”

Zayn feels the blood run from his face and he clenches his hands into his lap. “I’m just Zayn,” he mumbles. But he already knows it’s pointless. She may be sitting in front of him still, but in her head she’s already halfway down the stairs telling everyone what a _freak_ he is.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I let you touch me,” Jodie squeals and stands up, rubbing her hands over her exposed arms like it’ll somehow wash Zayn off of her skin. When he doesn’t move she points at him angrily. “Get _out_. Get out of my bedroom, get out of my house! No one wants you here, freak.”

Zayn doesn’t need telling twice. He can already feel a headache pounding behind his eyes. It’s all too familiar— _freak, freak, freak._ He’s heard this before; he’s _lived_ this before. He doesn’t need to do it again to know how it plays out.

He runs down the stairs but Jodie’s only a few paces behind him and he doesn’t get out of the house without a few more shouts and jeers being yelled after him. He doesn’t stop running until he reaches his house, out of breath with sweat pooling by his temples. He unlocks the front door with shaking hands and leans back against the door when it closes behind him.

“Zayn?” His mum comes out of the living room with a frown on her face. “I didn’t expect you back so early, sweetheart. Is everything alright?”

Zayn runs a hand over his face, through his hair that Doniya had so carefully styled for him. The rings he’d picked out, the shirt his mum had bought for him. As though any of it would make a difference; as though it would make the kids at school see him as someone they should respect or accept. But none of it matters, not really, because at the end of the day he is still Zayn Malik, the freak from Hollybrook who can contort.

“I’m not doing sixth form.”

His mum’s face draws up tight, but Zayn’s never felt so relieved in his life. “Zayn, what happened? Where’s this coming from?”

“It doesn’t matter what happened. I never wanted to do sixth form anyway.”

“You’re _smart_ , Zayn, you could have such a future ahead of you if you just—”

Zayn shakes his head. “I have a future ahead of me, already. But it’s going to be on my terms. Doing what I want to do.”

His mum looks at him steadily. “And what does that mean?” She asks, but she already knows. They both know she knows what it means.

***

It turns out that the majority of Zayn’s possessions can fit into two backpacks and a couple of plastic carrier bags. He leaves behind some books from his childhood, heavy things he knows he’ll never read again, and all of his textbooks from school. He takes some of his art materials that he has left over, all of his favourite comics, and stuffs his clothes into every nook and cranny he can make them fit.

His mum isn’t thrilled about him leaving but Zayn doesn’t think she’d be thrilled if he stayed, either. Not when neither of those paths leads him to sixth form, or university, or whatever career she had envisioned for him without taking his aspirations into account.

She barely says a word when he goes to leave that morning, which is unusual in itself. Waliyha and Safaa are quiet too, their dad stoic where he sits at the table, steadfastly ignoring his gaze. It’s Doniya who steps forward first, wrapping her arms tight around him and tucking her face into his neck.

“Don’t be a stranger, okay? Promise me, Zed,” she whispers into his skin.

Zayn closes his eyes and tries to commit as many details as possible to memory. The smell of her shampoo. The softness of her sweater under his hands. The small puffs of her breath against his skin, like she’s trying not to cry. “I promise. Love you, Don.”

She plants a kiss to his cheek before she pulls back.

Waliyha and Safaa are next—he’s not really sure they understand the full extent of what’s happening, of where Zayn’s going with his two backpacks and plastic bags. Maybe he’s just going away for a little while. Maybe he’ll be back. Safaa’s eyes are a little wet when she pulls back, though.

His dad doesn’t hug him but he touches a hand to his shoulder. His mum cups his face in his hands and holds him there. “You look after yourself, Zayn. You do that for me.”

Zayn tells his family he loves them and then steps out into the cool summer’s day. Tucked into his fist is the clipping he’d torn from the local newspaper. _Cirque_ is based not far away, a short train journey out of the city. _Cirque_ is to be his fresh start.


	2. part ii.

**part ii.**

_“The biggest human temptation is to settle for too little.”_

Zayn’s room is the smallest but it’s a price he’s willing to pay for having it all to himself. It’s little more than a shoebox, really—a single bed shoved up against one wall and a wooden chest of drawers tucked in at the end. One leg is shorter than the others so it sits squint and the top drawer never fully closes, bursting open. 

A pair of ripped purple tights hangs out of the side. Zayn eyes them in distaste as he steps inside and pushes the door shut behind him. 

It’s cold outside. Winter is setting in—he could feel it on the walk between the studio and his room. He’s been up since six this morning, drawing the short straw for rehearsal slots. The bags under his eyes are the least of his worries, though, when he takes in his reflection in the full length mirror bolted to the wall. 

He sits down on the edge of the bed and sighs, his shoulders slumping forward. His lower back throbs and his hands feel raw from friction burns caused by the rough flooring in the studio. The blanket underneath him, one he bought himself, is soft, at least. He considers curling up back underneath it and sleeping for a few hours—he has plenty of time before the show tonight. 

Someone knocks on the door. 

“Come in,” Zayn calls out and lifts his head. 

Ivy has two takeaway coffee cups balanced in her hands and a paper bag. “Brought you breakfast.” She glances at her watch. “Or, brunch, I suppose. Figured you wouldn't have eaten anything today.” 

Zayn manages a small smile. She’s right, of course. Ivy knows him better than anyone here. The rest of the troupe are friendly, and empathetic too—they know how he feels, how it aches down to his bones, because they go through the same thing he does. The relentless rehearsals that push him far beyond where he should be going; the ten-shows-a-week schedule for crowds who seem more interested in jeering and shrieking at them than admiring their talents. All for a bunk room, three meals a day, and a meagre salary. Zayn doesn’t see much of the money he makes, a large chunk of it getting put straight into an envelope and sent back home. The rest, he leaves alone, and dips into now and again when he can be bothered going as far as the nearest town. 

Ivy understands, to some extent, as a witness to how they are managed and treated, but she’s not a performer. She’s been Zayn’s best friend since his first night with the group, though. The night he curled up in this very bed and cried himself to sleep, wondering if he’d made a mistake, his body sore and a bruise forming on his shoulder from where their trainer, Joseph, had pushed it out of its socket by brute force. She found him that night, as she would many nights to come, and wrapped herself around him. She stroked his fingers through her hair until the shaking in his body subsided and his breathing evened out. 

By night, Ivy is a psychic, in the loosest sense of the word. By day, she mills around the circus with words of advice and a tube of Arnica cream in her back pocket. Sometimes, she can be found tucked in her tent with a tattoo gun buzzing in her grip as she inks intricate designs onto herself or one of the performers. 

She lets the door swing shut behind her and hands Zayn a cup and the bag. “Tomato and egg on white bread, no sauce.” She winks and sits down on the bed. Her long dark hair is pulled back into a messy bun, strands falling into her face. The sleeves of her sweater are rolled up to her elbows, only a few of her many tattoos visible like this. 

The smell of Arnica cream fills the small room as she snaps the tube open and squirts some into her palm. Zayn covers it up by taking a large sip of his coffee, taking the lid off so he can bury his nose into warm scent. 

“Come on.” Ivy taps his shoulder gently with one long nail. “Shirt off.” 

Zayn sets his cup down on the floor and pulls his baggy t-shirt off, tossing it towards the exploding dresser. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the way Ivy’s breath hitches. “Don’t. Just for one day, okay? Please.” 

Ivy sighs and Zayn feels it against the back of his neck. She presses her fingers over his shoulder, rubbing the cream in circles into his skin. “Zayn, I’ve seen all number of injuries around here over the years, but of everyone—” 

“Stop,” Zayn hisses. 

She jerks her hand back. “Does it hurt?” 

“No, no, I mean.” Zayn huffs. “Stop _talking._ ” Zayn opens his eyes and looks up at their reflections in the mirror across from them. Ivy’s eyebrows are pinched into a frown but she remains quiet. 

Zayn doesn’t need to hear it, the same thing she’s been saying for over two years. He knows the speech; he probably has it memorised by now. And even if he didn’t, he can _see_ it. He can see the bruising across his skin—the older ones dull and yellow, the newer ones fresh, dark pops of colour in amongst his tattoos. 

Ivy’s handiwork, all of them, although as many of them are his designs as hers. He likes the sense of control he gets of being the one to choose what goes on his skin. The strong tiger over one bicep; the snake on other. The wings over his collarbone and the fantail at the back of his neck. He touches his hand to the mandala over the opposite wrist, looking down at it so he doesn’t have to stare at his reflection any longer. 

Ivy takes her hands from his skin and gently tugs the hair tie free from the small top knot Zayn had put in before practice. The longer part of Zayn’s hair falls forward into his face, the sides kept shaved. She wraps her arms around his waist and presses her lips against the nape of his neck. 

“You know I only say it because I care, babe,” she murmurs. 

“I know.” 

Zayn knows he could leave. He could walk out of the grounds where _Cirque_ is set up and never look back. They couldn’t stop him and they probably wouldn’t even care enough to try and make him stay. 

But he has nowhere to go from here. Certainly not back home—of all the letters he sends, the only replies he gets are birthday cards and the occasional postcard when they take their annual holiday to the Lake District. The girls text him, silly pictures of them getting ready for some party, or anecdotes about their dad battling with IKEA flatpack furniture. Zayn doesn’t always reply. It feels too close to acknowledging the sharp pain in his chest he gets whenever he thinks about their lives back there, that no longer seem to have a place for him. 

If not here or there, then where? His savings don’t amount to much and he has no qualifications to speak of. He could try and find another circus troupe but that’s not to say that they’ll be any better than _Cirque_. 

Here, he has a roof over his head and food on his plate and he has Ivy. It’s something. 

“Will you at least eat your sandwich?” Ivy pokes a finger at his ribs. “It’s getting cold.” 

*** 

If there’s one thing that _Cirque_ , for all of its unethical working conditions and cramped living quarters, can’t take from him, it’s the rush of the performance. It starts well before Zayn actually gets out on stage, before even the first notes of the opening music play. His set is second to last, but he always awaits it from the wings of the round tent. He doesn’t watch the performance—he doesn’t really need to anymore. It’s changed very little in the two years he’s been there and he has everyone’s routines memorised just as well he has his own. 

His own is pure muscle memory, now. He doesn’t think: not about the crowd watching him or Joseph getting ready to critique him when he comes off stage for whatever he supposedly did wrong this time; least of all about the moves. 

He likes to warm up in the wings to the beat of the music: to push his hands down into the wet, springy grass and inhale the scent of the fog machine that gets pumped out over the stage and the audience seconds before the show starts. There’s a general hushed buzz backstage, even though most of the performers prefer to wait in the dressing rooms until they’re up. 

It’s cold backstage tonight. There’s a frosty feel in the air that wasn’t there earlier and Zayn’s breath is coming out in little white clouds. His costume doesn’t do much to keep him warm, either—thin, stretchy material that’s moulded to his frame. He calls it his supersuit, the all black one with the white stripes down the side seams. Sometimes, when he can’t get to sleep because of the generators humming outside and irritating his noisy mind, he imagines putting on the suit one day to find he has superpowers. He runs a finger over the lightning bolt that Ivy stitched into the inner left wrist as a joke and smiles to himself. 

When it comes to performing, it’s just Zayn and the stage. It’s circular and raised off the ground, accessed by a small flight of stairs tucked around the back part of the stage out of the audience’s sight line. Unlike the rehearsal studio, the stage is smooth and firm, the perfect base for his supple body to move against. And without Joseph bearing down on him, pushing him to do things even his body cannot do and berating him for it when Zayn can’t go as far as he wants him to, it’s a kind of serenity. 

Almost zen-like, when Zayn climbs the stairs, curling his legs one in front of the other, knocking his knees out of place. The audience gasps and that’s the only sound from them he will process until the routine is finished and he stands to take a bow to the night’s crowd. 

The lights are all focused on the central stage so he doesn’t think he’d have noticed them any earlier, even if he had been looking. But he sees them when he stands at the lip of the stage, out of breath with beads of sweat clinging to his hairline. In the third row back, of the central section. His mum, his dad, and his three sisters. Waliyha and Doniya wolf-whistle; Safaa tries to imitate them as best as she can with her fingers stuck into her mouth but she looks frustrated, like she can’t quite get it. It brings a smile to his face, one that slips only when he looks to their left and focuses on his parents. They clap slowly and as the lights fade to black, he catches the look of concern and sorrow etched onto their faces. 

* 

Zayn has just enough time to change out of his costume. He eases back the sheen of material that is slick with sweat and tosses it into the pile to be washed before he tugs on some sweatpants and a thick jumper. He lets his hair loose from the tight bun and tucks it back behind his ear as best as he can. 

He finds them by entrance, the five of them huddled together in the cold. Safaa’s got a takeaway cup of hot chocolate clutched between her gloved hands. She scowls at their dad every time he makes a playful grab for one of the fluffy marshmallows perched on the top, nearly spilling it all over herself when she jerks back. 

“Hi,” he calls out, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants as he walks over to them. His battered brown boots slide in the damp mud. “Come inside, it’s warmer there than the tent.” 

Safaa clasps her cup in one hand and reaches for one of his with her other, squeezing it tight. “Hi, Zayn.” She grins. She’s got hot chocolate on her upper lip and Zayn’s heart swells. 

“Hiya, you,” he whispers and squeezes her hand back. He leads her into the building, the series of rooms all joined together, from kitchen to living room to the dorms. They pass the kitchen but he keeps walking—everyone’s crammed inside, riding the post-show high, snacking on stale digestives or cracking open a six pack of cheap beer. 

The living room is, thankfully, empty and clean, for once, too. He doesn’t let go of Safaa’s hand as he perches on one of the sofas and she snuggles up next to his side. 

“Want some?” She offers her hot chocolate to him. 

He takes a sip and winces as it burns his tongue. “S’hot.” He makes an overly exaggerated face, sticking his tongue out far. “Be careful, little elephant.” He presses his finger to her nose. 

Safaa laughs and crosses her eyes. 

Across the room, his parents sit on the opposite sofa. His sisters take the one to the side, in between the two parties. On neutral ground, maybe. It’s never been like this before but Zayn isn’t much surprised. At home, before he left, he was as much a part of this family as each and every one of them—under the condition that his _abilities_ were ignored. Here, now, where he accepts and is open of those abilities, the divide is dug deep into the sand. 

“Are you getting enough to eat?” His mum doesn’t look at him as she talks, fiddling with band of her wedding ring. “You looked skinny up there. Like I could count your ribs.” 

“Yeah.” Zayn scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m eating, don’t worry.” He doesn’t tell her that the food isn’t as good as her home cooking. Doesn’t tell her that he picks at his food more than he ever would have when his mum set down a hot plate of fresh tikka masala in front of him after a long day at school. “Have you been getting my letters?” 

“Yes, we have. All of them. It’s nice to hear from you now and then, sunshine.” 

The words feel hollow when his mum still won’t meet his gaze. 

“You don’t need to send us money, Zayn.” His dad will look at him, but his gaze is hard and steady. “We’re just fine. We always have been.” 

Zayn swallows. “I—I know that. I just wanted to give back a little. I don’t need it here. And I keep some for myself.” 

“Well.” His dad rubs his hands over the front of his jeans. “Maybe it’s time you were moving on from here, anyway.” 

Zayn feels like he’s seventeen again and trying to find the words to tell his parents that he wants to leave, that he wants to find a life for himself as a contortionist. 

“You’ve had your little experiment now. I think it’s time that you left and found something else to do with your life. You’re nearly twenty.” His dad sighs and leans forward slightly. “And don’t try and tell me that you’re happy here, too happy to consider leaving. You’re pale. You look thin and exhausted. And as for these living quarters…” He trails off and looks around. “You could as well be living in a prison camp. Existing from the tent to this bunker of a building.” 

“Yaser,” his mum hisses and clamps a hand down around his knee. She finally looks at Zayn, her warm eyes wet with unshed tears. “Zayn, we do care about you. We care so much and you look so—so _fragile_ , sweetheart. We can’t help but worry.” 

Zayn gnaws at his lower lip. “I think maybe you should go,” he mumbles. He pulls his hand from Safaa’s and picks at a loose thread on the inside of the knee of his sweatpants. “It’s been a long day and I’d like to go to bed. Thank you for coming.” His voice sounds hollow, even to him, the words devoid of meaning or emotion. 

His parents don’t argue, they just stand up and motion for the girls to do the same. 

Safaa’s face falls. “But we only just got here. We’ve only seen you for five minutes,” she whines and wraps her arms around his waist tight, burying her face into his chest. “Mum, you said we could stay with him. You said we could stay for a long time, even if it is past bedtime, and see Zayn.” 

“Saf, come on now. If Zayn wants us to leave, then we’ll go.” 

Safaa lets out a noise of despair and her nails dig into Zayn’s back through the sweater. 

Zayn drops down to his knees to look her in the eye. He isn’t quick enough to mask the wince as his shins hit the hard floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his mum’s frown deepen as she turns to whisper something to her husband. “Babe, another time, I promise,” he murmurs and cups Safaa’s face in his hands. “Some other time, you can come during the day and I’ll show you all around the tent and backstage and stuff, and we can hang out properly. You and me, and Wali and Don. How’s that sound? Have a day just the four of us.” 

Safaa nods and lets Zayn hug her goodbye. 

“We’ll see,” is all his mum says. She wraps a tight arm around Safaa’s shoulders and pushes her gently towards the door. She doesn’t hug Zayn, just presses her hands to his chest and looks up at him. “Our home will always be yours, too, Zayn.” 

Zayn nods but he isn’t sure it’s entirely the truth. 

Doniya hugs him close though, and he can tell that she means it. She’s got that same look of concern on her face, the one she’s got off their mum. “Do you remember Harry? Gemma’s little brother?” 

The tops of Zayn’s ears heat up involuntarily. “Sure. Crazy kid with the curls. What about him?” 

“Gem says he’s doing something similar. Based a little further south, near London, at the moment. Apparently he’s really enjoying it. Good group, they treat him well.” 

Zayn stuffs his hands back into his pockets and balls them into fists. “What are you getting at?” 

Doniya sighs. “Just that you shouldn’t feel, I don’t know, _stuck_ here. This and coming home are not the only two options. People change jobs all the time, move from office to office. It’s not that weird to consider it.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes. “This is hardly a nine-to-five, Don.” 

“Stop being a brat; you know what I mean. You could try somewhere new and you might be happier there. That’s all, Zayn. There’s no need to get so snarky with me.” 

Zayn’s shoulders slump. “Nah, I know, I’m sorry.” He shrugs. “That’s great that Harry’s good or whatever but so I am. Can’t you just trust me when I say that?” 

“I want to trust you but your eyes tell a different story to the one you’re selling me, kiddo.” She kisses his forehead and follows after their parents. 

Waliyha says her goodbyes last and follows out of the room. Ivy hovers by the doorway to the kitchen, talking to Zayn’s mum who has gone ahead. The door closes behind his family and Zayn stays stood still, eyes flicking up to Ivy. 

“I thought maybe it would help. To know that they’re still there, that they still _care_. That there is somewhere you could go.” Ivy folds her arms across her chest. There’s fresh ink on her forearm, a Ferris wheel done in black, tinted red around the edges where it stands up from the skin. “I won’t apologise. Not for trying to look after you when you won’t do it yourself.” 

Zayn starts down the corridor. “I’m not asking you to apologise. But I never asked you to look after me, either.” 

“Zayn—” 

Zayn shakes his head. “I don’t want to fight with you, Ive. I just want to sleep right now, okay?” He stops by her long enough to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Ivy tilts her head around to kiss him properly on the mouth. “No, you won’t.” She smiles fondly. “You don’t train until the afternoon.” 

Zayn grins. “So I’ll see you in the afternoon, babe. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, Zayn. Sweet dreams.” 

*** 

Maybe it’s because he goes to bed thinking of home, of the few memories that he keeps locked away from his time there. The good ones—the _great_ ones. Flinging peas at Waliyha across the table at dinner time and the first time he formed a true human wheel and Dave fell over in excitement. The first time he got really, truly drunk because his cousin kept sneaking him drinks at a family party and the first time Safaa said his name. 

And Harry. Harry’s mouth, his eyes, his hands. The way he spoke with his whole body and kissed Zayn like it was the last thing he’d ever get to do. 

Whatever the reason, he dreams of him that night. Zayn dreams of Harry, the boy he left behind, the boy he didn’t let himself take a chance on for fear of how it might end. Of how it might hurt. 

He dreams of Harry’s lips on his skin and the sound of his laugh. Dream Harry looks just the same, still in his mussed school uniform like the second and last time Zayn saw him. His pink, pink lips stretched into a grin, that he touches to the centre of Zayn’s chest like he did at that party so long ago. Right between where Zayn’s angel wings sit now. 

Zayn wakes up with two fingers pressed to that spot on his chest. He traces an invisible cupid’s bow between the wings and remembers Harry. 

It wakes him far earlier than he’d intended to, his dream. It’s not even midday and Zayn could just stay curled in bed and watch the thin curtains billow from the draft but he decides to get up. He can’t remember the last time he didn’t have to rush straight to the studio to stretch and warm up before rehearsal, usually still half asleep and drowsy, prone to crashing headfirst into a few door frames along the way. 

He decides to return a favour so often given to him and bring Ivy breakfast. He gets waffles from the tiny café down the street and balances them as best as he can in a takeaway box against his chest, two coffees perched on top kept upright with his chin. 

The buzzing of Ivy’s tattoo gun greets Zayn when he walks into her tent, the plush red satins that line that walls giving the whole room a warm glow. He can smell fresh ink in the air and it makes his skin prickle. He wants another—has done for a while, but hasn’t been able to decide exactly what he wants. 

“Ive, I’m coming in,” Zayn calls out before he walks through the curtain to the backroom where she does her tattooing. He’d rather not startle her if she’s got the tattoo gun pressed to anyone’s skin, least of all her own. 

She doesn’t look up when he walks in. “Just touching up,” she tells him. The gun shuts off and she sits up from where she had been bent over her ankle, cleaning off the excess ink and wrapping it carefully. “You’re up early, love.” 

“Brought you breakfast.” Zayn grins proudly and goes to sit by her, laying down the small feast he’s brought. 

“Aw, look at that.” Ivy pinches his cheek. “You’re a good egg, you are. Going to have to keep ahold of you.” 

Zayn hums and takes a sip of his coffee. “You got time to do me one, you reckon?” He nods towards the tattoo gun. “Think I know what I want next.” 

*** 

The red pair of lips inked between the wings on Zayn’s chest sets up a steady ache by the time he goes to the studio. It’s not a bad ache, it’s something he’s come to quite enjoy, part of the adrenalin of getting a new tattoo. He’s had it before where his fresh ink has seared with pain from the stretch of his contortion, particularly the ones over his shoulders and upper arms. That won’t be the case today, as long as he’s careful not to press down against the mat straight onto his collarbone, which is a little painful at the best of times. 

The rehearsals aren’t closed to the other performers or _Cirque_ staff, but it’s rare for anyone to sit in on them. It’s the same thing, day in, day out. Any magic or appeal would fade within a week or two, leaving just the performer and Joseph in the windowless, confined space of the studio. 

Today, however, Ivy is there. She’s sitting in the back row of the small seating platform, her knees tucked up to her chest, boots hooked onto the edge of the chair. 

Joseph seems disinterested in the audience. “Just tell your girlfriend to be quiet if she’s going to sit up there, alright? I don’t want any catcalling or whatever nonsense.” 

Zayn doesn’t need to tell her since she clearly hears it for herself, tossing her middle finger up Joseph when his back is turned. 

He’s tired, is the thing. Today should have been his day to catch up on sleep from the past week or so, to give his body a chance to recover and recharge. But with waking early and getting up when he had, he feels just as drained as he had the night before. 

His feet catch and his limbs fumble and he knows it’s coming but it’s still a shock when Joseph’s hand smacks down between his shoulder blades. 

“What are you playing at? C’mon. You’re better than this.” 

Zayn bites down into his lower lip so hard he tastes the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. He pushes a breath sharply out through his nose and folds his body tighter. But it burns and he can’t hold it, crying out as he falls to the floor. 

Ivy’s footsteps echo against the metal staircase. The door out to the courtyard bangs as she leaves the studio. 

“Good riddance,” Joseph mutters. He toes Zayn sharply in the leg with the boot. “Up. Do it again. Do it _better._ ” 

* 

By the time Zayn’s slinging his sweatshirt back on and heading towards the door, he expects that Ivy will be long gone. But she’s outside in the fading daylight. A cigarette glows bright between her long fingers; another sits, unlit, propped behind her ear. 

Zayn steals the spare one and starts to light it before Ivy can get the chance to protest. But she doesn’t even try, staying uncharacteristically quiet as Zayn lets the nicotine hit his bloodstream and soothe his aching muscles. He can already feel fresh bruises blooming on his skin from his rehearsal, some that will need a little make up before tomorrow night’s show, before he goes out on the stage again. 

He looks up when Ivy remains silent and studies the stoic expression on her face. He sighs wearily and flicks ash from the end of his cigarette. “Go on then. I know you’re dying to say it.” 

Ivy scoffs. “I shouldn’t even _have_ to say it anymore, Zayn. I’m tired of saying it.” Her tone falls softer in the evening air. “Why do you let him treat you like that? Why would you let _anyone_ treat you like that?” 

“It’s just part of the job, init? It’s not supposed to be easy.” 

“It doesn’t have to be easy for it to not involve you being physically injured and harassed on a daily basis,” she bites back, tossing the cigarette to the ground and grinding it into the dirt with the toe of her boot. “You are one of the most interesting and strong people I have ever met. But when you get in there? It’s like you’re not even you anymore. It’s like you’re happy to just let them use you—for what? A bed? Three shitty meals a day that you barely touch anyway?” 

Zayn says nothing, focusing on keeping one hand steady as he raises the cigarette to his lips. 

“Have you heard the latest rumour?” 

Zayn shrugs one shoulder. “Course I haven’t. Where would I hear rumours from round here ‘cept you?” 

“Paris, I heard. But maybe even a full European tour.” 

Zayn doesn’t try to keep the surprise out of his face. “Really?” 

Ivy nods. “They reckon a fresh market could boost ticket sales again—build anticipation from place to place, bring in a fresh audience. We’ve been settled here for too long for a good circus, let alone this shit-show.” 

Zayn almost wants to protest, about how hard they work, about how Ivy doesn’t _know_ how tough it is performing. But he can’t because she’s right and the giggles start to fall from his lips, quickly becoming uncontrollable. “It’s such a shit-show,” he wheezes, tipping his head back against the wall and trying to get his breath back. “Oh my god, it’s a _mess_. I can’t believe more of the audiences don’t walk out. I would.” He groans and tosses his cigarette down, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

Ivy’s grin glints in the darkness. “You could do so much better than this place. You’re _good,_ Zayn. Even I can see that much, as little as I might know about it all. This could be your out—there’s already murmurings of other people not wanting to go abroad.” 

Zayn tilts his head around to look at her. “Are you going to go?” 

“Nothing keeping me here, really.” 

The corner of Zayn’s mouth tilts up into a small smile. Maybe, if things were different between them, he’d ask her to stay. He’d be her reason to stay. But it’s not like that between them and it’s never been like that. Ivy; she’s always been something more than a best friend but something less than a girlfriend. They’ve never tried to define it because it, like their entwined lives at _Cirque_ , always felt in some way temporary. “I’d miss you,” he says. 

“I’d miss you, too.” Ivy moves to him and curls into his body. “Even if you are a complete dickhead sometimes.” She kisses him on the mouth. “Want to order a pizza and cuddle?” 

Zayn squeezes her hip. “No mushrooms this time.” 

Ivy rolls her eyes. “Only dickheads don’t like mushrooms on pizza. Come on, then.” 

*** 

Ivy stays with him that night, the two of them wrapped around each other in the tiny space of the bed. The blankets are in a heap on top of them but it’s the warmth of Ivy’s body next to his that Zayn will remember, when he thinks back on their time together. 

Because this feels like a goodbye. It felt like goodbye even as they ate pizza and watched Netflix as they might any evening of the week. It felt like goodbye when Ivy undressed and slipped into bed beside him and kissed his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the slope of his cheek. 

And it feels like goodbye now as Ivy’s eyes slowly slip shut, one hand curled around Zayn’s hips as her breath fans out over his mouth. 

He loves her, in a way. It’s not really a true love kind of love; it’s not even really an in love kind of love. It just is. And it’s not a bad thing or a good thing that it’s over, it’s just a thing. Another thing that’s happened. 

She’s gone when Zayn wakes up but that’s not unusual. She likes to use the quiet of the morning around the grounds to tidy up her tent or to find fresh flowers to decorate the kooky decor of the interior. 

Zayn feels different. His muscles still hurt and the bruises he’d felt blooming have surfaced, stark and ugly against his skin. But he feels lighter in his chest than he has in a long time. And yet, he hasn’t even made the decision to leave yet—certainly can’t now, not when there’s a show to be done this evening, a slot in the schedule that’s marked down as Zayn in big, angry, red letters. 

But something’s definitely different. It buzzes all around the site, the news of the tour now far more than a rumour, working its way up to full-fledged gossip. Some are already excited to leave, to see somewhere new, to perform to new audiences. Others are packing their bags, too, but to leave _Cirque_ altogether. He doesn’t know among which of the groups he belongs so he doesn’t get involved in the chatter when he pushes through to the washrooms to take a hot bath. 

It doesn't help all that much—it just makes his skin red and irritated from the cheap bath salts he tossed in. He aches right down to his bones. When he stands in front of the mirror, naked and still dripping from the bath, he sees it. 

He sees what made his family concerned, and he sees why Ivy is always so hard on him about getting out. He sees the jut of his ribs and the bruises, some old and fading, some new and fresh. He sees the deep circles under his eyes and the sallow colour of his skin. The edges around his fingernails are chewed raw and when he turns to examine his profile his joints click and crack. 

“One hour!” Someone yells in the corridor and a fist bangs against the door. “One hour, come on, people! We’re still here, we’re still going on tonight! Get it together!” Another bang. 

“Alright, I’m coming,” Zayn snaps back and waits until the footsteps have receded from outside the door. He dresses with his back to the mirror and returns to his room just long enough to even out the colour of the visible bruises with some make up. 

The punters are starting to arrive outside—it sounds busy, busier than it has been recently. Perhaps word has started to spread that they are to move on, and people want the chance to see them before they leave. Or perhaps it’s an illusion. Now that his time with _Cirque_ might be about to come to an end, perhaps it feels as though the crowds are growing, are more intense, are more involved. 

The first person he sees in the audience that night when he sneaks around to the side of the wings to await his slot is Ivy. Ivy rarely watches the performances from an audience seat anymore, or at all. But she’s sat in the front row, tucked close to a young man around their age. 

The man is tall and broad, with short brown hair and the beginnings of a beard. He has warm eyes and when he smiles at something Ivy’s says, they crinkle at the corners. 

Zayn cocks his head. Ivy’s body is turned to him as though the man is familiar to her. He wonders if she’s flirting with him but he knows what Ivy looks like when she’s flirting, and that’s not it. 

He looks down the row and there, four seats down, is Dave. He’s grown his hair out so it flops in front of his forehead and he looks a little silly. But it’s Dave alright, wearing the beaming grin that used to appear whenever he got really enthusiastic about something Zayn did. 

Zayn’s watching them when he moves onto the stage and the lights focus in on him. He’s watching Ivy and the man, who in turn watch him back intently. Ivy wears a proud smile and the man is leaning forward, an expression of concentration knitted into his eyebrows. Dave, along the row, looks like his face might split in two if he smiles any harder. He waves in what he probably believes to be a discrete manner and Zayn has to bite back his own grin of amusement. 

Zayn’s watching Ivy, and the man, and Dave, and he’s not looking for the lip of the stage. Because he knows that stage blindfolded and backwards, and he shouldn’t have to look. 

He hears the gasp when he tips over the edge and the sickening sound his body makes when it hits the hard ground. He sees his leg bent up at a funny angle and feels the way his ribs constrict when he breathes. He closes his eyes and lets the ringing in his ears overtake him until he loses consciousness completely. 

He should have looked. 


	3. part iii.

**part iii.**

_“Here's to the nights that turned into mornings with the friends that turned into family.”_

It’s an itch on his left arm that wakes him. His eyes remain closed but he lifts a hand to scratch at it with a blunt nail, his eyebrow puckering. He hears a chair shifting near the bed and there’s a steady beeping sound beside his ear that’s already starting to irritate him. 

Zayn blinks his eyes open, rubbing the sleep from one with his fist. He tilts his head to one side and takes in the bland hospital room. It’s very white and very bright; the winter sunlight streaming in through the window makes him squint. 

“Zayn? How do you feel?” The man leans over him and blocks some of the harsh light from Zayn’s eyes. 

He recognises him, then. It’s the same man who’d been sat with Ivy; the same man he’d seen watching him right before he— 

“Shit,” Zayn breathes out. His voice is raspy and his throat is a little tight. “How long was I—?” 

“About fourteen hours,” the man replies. He lets out a breath and sits back in the chair. 

Zayn hisses as the light floods his vision again and rests his arm against his eyes. “Can you close the blinds? It’s giving me a headache.” 

“Yeah, ‘course.” 

The man looks even taller and bigger up close, his muscles straining under the tight material of his t-shirt. He’s got tattoos that Zayn can see now, too. Three arrows on his forearms and some more patterns snaking up the skin and down onto his hand. 

“Ivy had to go back to start packing up her things but she said she’d call in later. She left a card,” the man tells him and gestures to the table by the bed. “Another guy came, too. Good looking, mid 30s maybe? Long, shaggy hair?” 

Zayn snorts. “Dave,” he mumbles, turning to look at the bedside table. The card from Ivy puts a smile on his face: it’s one of those over-the-top, ten page epics of a card, with hearts and balloons and flower motifs and lots of snippets of sickening poetry. 

For all that it is a joke, the kind of thing they would take the piss out of together when they went shopping, the message inside is more serious. Zayn touches his fingers to the words lightly. 

_Please wake up. Ivy._

“You a friend of hers? Ivy’s?” 

The man nods as he sits back down, the room now lit with just a warm glow through the blinds. “She lived next door to my family when I was growing up.” He pauses and eyes Zayn warily. “She’s just a friend. It was never anything more than that. More like a sister, than anything else.” 

Zayn tries to laugh but his throat is too dry and no sound comes out. The man seems to sense his struggle and helps him to get his hands around a glass of water. He drinks greedily and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “We’re not really— Anymore.” 

The man nods. “She mentioned that.” He smiles. “She talks about you a lot. I’ve seen you perform before. I came once, a few months ago. But she said you weren’t ready to talk about leaving, yet.” 

Zayn frowns and carefully sets the empty cup onto the table by the bed. “Who are you?” He asks. 

A spot of colour appears on each of the man’s cheeks. “God, sorry.” He chuckles. “My name’s Liam. Liam Payne. Here’s me chatting away like we’re best mates and I hadn’t even told you my name.” 

Zayn thinks for a moment. “Ivy’s never mentioned you.” 

“Nah, she wouldn’t have. Reckon she was worried you’d flip out if you thought she was trying to get someone else to coax you into leaving that place.” Liam plucks at his lower lip. “I want to offer you a job. Sort of.” 

“Sort of?” 

“Well.” Liam’s eyes crinkle with his smile. Zayn remembers it from the night before, the crinkle right before he— 

Zayn shakes it off and pulls himself back to the present. He doesn’t want to think about last night or the mangled shape of his body when he fell or what that means for him now. He’s alive, he’s awake, and he’s breathing. For now, that’s all that matters. 

“Feels a little formal, given what we do, doesn’t it? But it pays and there’d be a room for you that I can promise you is bigger than the one you’ve got now. It’s a good group—small, there’s just the four of us. Five, if you join us. Two acrobats, a strongman, and a sword swallower-slash-fire breather.” He ticks them off on his fingers as he goes. “Think we could be something pretty special if we added you into the mix, too.” 

Zayn blinks a few times and lets his head fall back against the stack of pillows. He’s so tired which doesn’t make much sense when he’s been unconscious for half a day. But he’s tired and he’s hungry and he doesn’t know if his limbs work right anymore. 

“You don’t need to decide right now,” Liam adds, in a softer tone. “I know you’ve been with _Cirque_ for a while. Change can be tough, but…” He lays hand on Zayn’s arm. “We’d be fair to you, Zayn. I already have an immense amount of respect for what you can do and I have no doubt that other boys will feel the same once they see you.” 

“And _Cirque_? They’re definitely moving on?” 

Liam hesitates a second before he nods. “Packing up right now.” He gestures to a few bags at the other side of the room. “Ivy put together your things and brought them here so nothing would get lost. It’s a bit chaotic over there; think they’re trying to get moving by the end of the day tomorrow.” 

“Right.” Zayn’s mouth still feels dry and his stomach lets out a loud growl. 

Liam squeezes his forearm gently and stands up. “I’ll go get a nurse, yeah? Let’s see how soon we can get you out of here.” 

* 

His ribs are bruised and he’s got a lump the size of an egg on his head. His ankle’s twisted and swollen. But nothing’s broken. And when Zayn shrugs his shoulder out of the socket and back in again—much to the disapproval of his nurse, June, who looks like she’s had quite enough of having a contortionist for a patient already—he doesn’t feel even a twinge of pain. 

Liam leaves in the time that he’s getting checked up and Zayn doesn’t try to stop him. He looks like he could do with some sleep and probably a shower. He doesn’t need to say it for Zayn to know he spent the night, from the way his shirt is rumpled and the shadows under his eyes. 

What Zayn doesn’t quite understand is _why_. Liam wants him to join his group, he understands that. But why should he care so much about someone he barely knows—a friend of a friend, an injured contortionist with little to his name? 

Zayn can’t make sense of it and he stops trying to. His head is throbbing by the time June is satisfied and agrees to bring him something to eat. They want to keep him in for another day to make sure he doesn’t fall out of consciousness again and to check that there’s no internal bleeding. It’s been so long since Zayn was allowed the time and space to just be. To snooze, and thumb through a used copy of _The Great Gatsby_ that June finds him from the common room. 

They give him his phone back and he shoots Doniya a quick message, sending his love to her and the girls. If she’s confused by the source of his sudden display of love, she doesn’t comment on it, just expressing a wish for them to see each other again soon. Even if it means not telling or inviting their parents. 

Zayn sleeps through most of the afternoon and wakes up late into the evening. The ward is quiet; eery, almost. It reminds him of a zombie film he’s sure he’s seen: fluorescent lights on white corridors, nothing but the monotonous beeping of machines up and down the ward. He half expects to the drag of feet against the linoleum and the faces of the undead to hook around his doorway. 

But it’s Dave that comes to his door—very much alive Dave. His hair still looks silly and Zayn doesn’t hesitate to tell him so. 

Dave looks put out as he runs a hand through the longest part. “You think? I thought it was working for me.” He settles into the seat by Zayn’s bed. “How are you feeling?” 

Zayn nods. “I’m fine. Nothing serious, just a bit of bruising and that. Doctor says I’ll be fine to be up and about tomorrow unless I become comatose overnight or something like that.” 

Dave’s smile is warm and proud. “Always were such a tough one.” He raises an eyebrow. “Quite a tumble you took out there. Almost wish I’d filmed it—could have gotten a couple of hundred quid off Harry Hill, probably.” 

Zayn’s mouth curls up at the corner. “I could probably do something more impressive for _You’ve Been Framed_ on purpose.” 

Dave laughs. “No doubt.” 

Zayn yawns and smacks a hand over his mouth, flashing Dave an apologetic look. “They gave me some pain meds—makes me drowsy.” 

“Don’t apologise. I think you deserve a bit of a rest. I wasn’t going to stay long, anyway.” Dave stands and brushes down his jeans. “Take care of yourself, yeah? Let me know when you’re back onstage and I’ll come and see you. Maybe even get to see you contort this time, and all.” 

Zayn grins lazily; his eyelids are already drooping. “No promises,” he murmurs. 

*** 

June comes in with the doctor in the morning to give him the all clear. Zayn never was a morning person but he jumps out of bed at the news even though the clock on the wall says that it’s barely nine in the morning. It’s decidedly less fun to laze around in bed when he’s being _forced_ to stay there. 

He likes using his feet. He likes walking around and feeling the air on his skin rather than the stale heat of the blankets. He likes wiggling his toes on the linoleum and he really, _really_ likes the idea of being able to take a shower. 

He showers at the hospital even though the soap smells foul and the water is lukewarm at best, and dresses himself in the first pair of jeans and sweater he can dig out from one of his bags that Ivy packed. 

Liam’s waiting in his room when he’s done, tucking the cards from his bedside table into his rucksack that’s sat at the foot of the bed. He’s changed his shirt and trimmed his beard but otherwise he looks much the same, still quite tired. He beams when he sees Zayn up and about, though. 

“So…” Liam tucks his hands into his pockets. “Where are you headed? I have a car. I can drop you somewhere if you want?” 

Zayn slicks a hand through his hair. “Well.” He sucks his lower lip into his mouth. “Thought I might come with you, if the offer’s still on the table.” _Don’t really have anywhere else to go._ “That be okay?” _Please say yes._

Liam’s grin splits just about splits his face in two. “More than okay.” 

Zayn slings a bag over his shoulder and then looks up at Liam. “Is Ivy coming?” 

Liam pauses in shouldering Zayn’s rucksack. He says nothing. 

“They already left.” 

“I’m sorry, Zayn. She didn’t have time.” 

“It’s cool.” Zayn smiles tightly. A part of him didn’t really expect her to come but he finds he misses her already, and she’s barely gone. “Girl like Ivy—she’ll rock up in my life again one of these days. Just the way she is.” 

Liam visibly relaxes. “Yeah. That’s Ivy.” He takes a step towards Zayn. “She wanted me to give you this.” He hesitates only a moment before he leans forward and kisses Zayn’s cheek chastely. 

Zayn tries not to flush. He’s only _human—_ and this Liam’s an attractive guy. 

“Oh, and this.” Liam looks a bit conflicted and he sighs before he raises his hand and smacks Zayn gently on the upside of his head. “Something about it taking a hospital visit to make you see sense.” 

“Oi!” Zayn rubs the side of his head but grins when he sees Liam’s concern. “Ivy would have hit me much harder.” He shrugs and picks up the last two carrier bags on the floor. He glances around the bare hospital room one last time and then turns toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.” 

* 

The drive to where Liam and his friends are set up is just under an hour. Zayn can’t remember the last time he was even in a car—probably back when he lived at home and he used to get crammed into the back seat between Safaa and Waliyha because Safaa claimed she got carsick if she wasn’t by a window, even if they were only driving to Tesco’s. 

He tips his head back against the headrest and considers dozing off but he doesn’t want to be rude when Liam’s been driving back and forth to see him as much as he has, anyway. Besides, he doesn’t entirely know where they’re going and he stares intently out of the window, his eyes flickering over the roadsigns they pass. 

Liam doesn’t talk much at first. It doesn’t feel awkward, as such, even if perhaps it should when they barely know one another. It feels more as though Liam is just giving him space, letting him relax into the idea of starting over somewhere new, with people he doesn’t know. 

“It’ll be a little different than what you’re used to, I expect,” Liam says finally. It’s starting to rain out. The windscreen wipers squeak against the glass as they swish back and forth. “There used to be eight of us but four of the boys took off, so now it’s just the four, like I told you. It’s a small group but I think it works. I think we can make it work with you. We haven’t performed yet as a four,” he explains. “Almost like we were waiting for you to come along, huh?” 

Curiosity gets the better of Zayn. “Why did they leave?” 

“They wanted to find some travelling groups. No hard feelings or anything like that; it was just time for them to move on.” 

“You don’t want to travel?” 

“One day, sure.” Liam exits the motorway and grunts as the rain seems to increase tenfold. “But we’d like to build a bit of a name for ourselves first. It’d make it less of a risk, then, touring—more of a guarantee that we’ll pull in some audience. If we went now, we might not even make enough to cover the travel costs, you know?” 

Zayn nods. “That makes sense.” 

“Used to be me and this guy, Sandy, that handled all the business but he was one of the ones who moved on. Now Louis helps me out—he’s one of the acrobats. He’s got a really sharp mind, when he’s willing to put it to good use. 

“Niall, the other acrobat, does the music and lighting plan, and Harry sort of helps out wherever he’s needed. He goes into town and flyers a lot—he’s the real charming type, you know.” 

Zayn’s fingers drum off his thigh restlessly. “Harry? What does he do?” He asks and hopes that his tone doesn’t give anything away. Only, Doniya said that Harry was working somewhere nearby. And how many charming, circus performer Harrys could there be in the north of England? 

“He’s the sword swallower and fire breather. Good with his mouth, is what he likes to call it.” Liam chuckles. “I’m the strongman. May not look totally obvious just looking at me but when you put me next to the other three you’d probably be able to tell,” he says with a cheeky grin. 

Zayn’s laugh falls a little flat. “Nah, you look the part, mate.” He gnaws at his lower lip, nearly splitting the skin there. 

Harry, _his_ Harry. Could it be? It seems impossible but at the same time, maybe it was inevitable that they would cross paths again one day. Growing up in the same town and neither of them moving far from there. Working in the same circles and their families still being connected through Doniya and Gemma. 

Liam seems to sense that something’s changed. “Are you alright? You don’t need to be nervous. They’re great guys, all of them. A little bit nuts—and you might do well to watch out for Louis—but they’re the best people I’ve ever met.” 

Zayn shakes his head and flashes Liam a smile that he hopes reaches his eyes. “I’m fine. Just a little tired still. That’s all.” 

Liam nods and smiles, falling quiet again. 

The rain is easing off slightly as they amble down a smaller path. At the end of the path, he can see an open space ahead, a large burgundy canvas roof stretched taut but billowing around the sides. 

Liam sighs. “Hope someone noticed the weather and put the bowls out again. Our cabins round the back are water tight as anything and fully functioning, promise. Just the tent that’s a bit… Weathered,” he finishes. “I’m working on it.” 

As Zayn steps out of the car and grabs his bags, the rain slowing to a drizzle over his head, he looks out over the tent. He can hear music coming from within, accompanied by the sound of laughter. “It looks perfect.” 

* 

Liam takes him to the cabins first and shows him his. It’s colourful on the inside—one blue wall, one red, one green, and one yellow. It makes his head hurt a little bit. 

“Harry went through this phase, something about bright colours exerting positive energy.” Liam shrugs. “We’ve got some paint still kicking around if you want to do something with it yourself.” 

Zayn perks up. “Yeah? Would that be alright?” 

“Of course. It’s your room, now.” 

There’s a large double bed at the end of the room with _Captain America_ sheets that Liam admits are a spare set of his. He promises Zayn there are some others in the utility cupboard but Zayn’s quick to assure him that he likes these just as much. A bookshelf sits next to it, with a few discarded volumes propped up on the shelves. There’s a wardrobe with a large mirror set into the door and a large window that lets in natural light. 

“Louis was talking about taking an IKEA trip soon so if there’s anything else you want, you could go with him. And if you need to borrow a little money, then we can lend you some.” 

Zayn shakes his head and sets his stuff down to unpack later. “I have some saved up. I’ll be fine.” There are a lot of things he’s willing to let Liam do for him, but lending him money is not one of them. Not after all he’s done. 

“Right.” Liam rubs his hands together. “How about we go introduce you to the others, then?” He leads him out of the cabins and back outside where the rain has stopped, but has left the grass soggy and spongy underfoot. 

One of the tent doors gapes open and Liam leads Zayn inside. He expects it to be colder than it is but there are large outdoor heaters fixed around the tent so a pleasant warmth envelops the space. 

“Welcome back, Liam.” 

Zayn jumps about a mile as he looks up above the doorway and comes face to face with a young man. He’s got brown hair that hangs into his eyes where he’s hanging upside down, almost bat-like, with his legs hooked over a wooden bar. 

Liam rolls his eyes. “Zayn, this is Louis.” Liam looks up at Louis pointedly until he swings off the bar and drops gracefully to his feet in front of Zayn. 

“So, _you’re_ the infamous, Zayn.” Louis’ blue eyes flicker over Zayn’s form. He’s wearing a thin t-shirt and a pair of loose joggers that bunch at his ankles. “It’s good to put a face to the name. And to the lengthy, poetic descriptions of your cheekbones that I’ve heard far too many times.” 

Zayn raises an eyebrow and looks at Liam. 

Liam raises his hands. “Not guilty.” He lowers his hands and turns back to Louis. “Where’re Niall and Harry?” 

Louis raises a finger to his lips to shush them and then points somewhere further into the tent. From within, comes the sound of gagging and retching. 

Neither of them seems particularly concerned by this. “Oh, he’s rehearsing,” Liam says and tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “And Niall?” 

“Gone out. Said he had a craving for fish and chips but he promised he’d bring back enough for everyone.” 

“Good man.” Liam glances at Zayn and clears his throat. “Harry?” He calls out. 

Louis winces. “Careful. Last time you called out to him like that he got a pipe stuck in his throat.” He turns to Zayn. “It wasn’t pretty.” 

“Yeah?” The voice comes from where the retching had earlier. 

Zayn feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The voice is deeper than what he remembers but it’s still undeniably Harry. It’s Harry. _His_ Harry who was never really his at all and should probably stop being referred to as his Harry, he scolds himself. 

He looks different, too, when he emerges into the main body of the tent. He’s dressed similarly to Louis but with his hair wrapped up in a tie-dye bit of a fabric that keeps the curls out of his face, much as he had worn one that night that Zayn met him. His hair is definitely longer, though, and he’s lost the soft curve to his face that had been there before. There’s ink on his arms and probably more beneath his t-shirt if the shadows under the white material are anything to go by. 

And when he sees Zayn, a grin breaks out over his face that pushes the dimples into his cheeks and Zayn’s heart does something very weird and very unsettling. 

“Zayn!” Harry bounds towards him, all limbs everywhere. He’s taller, and broader, too—Zayn can feel it when he hugs him, how small he feels in Harry’s arms. It wasn’t like that before. 

“Hi, Harry,” he breathes out and wraps his arms around his back, tucking his face into his neck. He smells like cocoa butter and rum—presumably that he’d been gargling to practice, rather than drinking this time. 

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” Harry whispers into his ear, his arms impossibly tight around him. “I can’t believe you’re _here_.” 

He pulls back and looks at Zayn with such intensity that Zayn almost wants to shy away from it. 

Zayn knows he’s not unattractive—he knows he grew into his cheekbones and his hair’s more suave and less Sonic the Hedgehog with how he wears it now. He also knows he’s skinner than he has been in years and that his skin is still mottled with bruises. He’s not exactly at his best. He wraps his arms around his stomach and takes a step back. 

Harry’s smile falters for half a second before it’s back in full force. “I’m so glad you’re here! You’re exactly what we’ve been missing, and it’s good to see someone from home.” He cocks his head and grins. 

“Yeah.” Zayn swallows and looks around at the three boys, who are all looking at him as though they expect his body to start twisting up in weird and wonderful ways right in front of their eyes, right way. “I might go take a nap, if that’s alright. Past few days have been a lot, you know?” He scratches the back of his neck. 

“Go and rest. I’ll come get you when Niall’s back with the food,” Liam says. “You should eat something. June said you only picked at the hospital food.” 

Zayn scrunches up his nose. “You would have, too, if you saw it.” 

“I could come with you?” Harry says. 

“Harry,” Liam replies quietly, before Zayn can, and gives a small shake of his head. 

“I’ll be fine by myself, thanks.” Zayn twists his hair back into a small bun and knots it with the hairband from his wrist. “I’ll see you all in a bit, yeah?” 

* 

Zayn doesn’t sleep. He unpacks his things and tacks one of the few photos he has of him and his sisters up onto the wall to try and make the space look at least a little more personal. He considers going on a hunt for the paint Liam mentioned but he thinks he might leave it until the weather’s a little better. Maybe he can buy some spray paint, throw open the windows, and really go to town on the walls. He’s not sure yet. 

It’s overwhelming, being around the boys. It feels like they’ve adjusted to the idea of him so quickly, like they’d carved a place out for him with them long ago and Zayn’s the one left to play catch up. It’s Harry, too: seeing him again, and his infectious energy that Zayn remembers from that night. 

It had only been _one_ night. But he thinks, in a naive sixteen-year-old kind of way, he’d fallen in love with Harry that night. And for whatever reason, he’d never fully forgotten it. 

He joins them for dinner of fish and chips even though he’s feeling a little uncomfortable and would much rather hide away for the night until he can get his head into order a bit better. He eats as much as he can manage, aware of the way Liam’s carefully watching him, and gets introduced to Niall, who he quickly learns spends as little time walking on his feet as possible. 

“Sorry, mate!” Niall finally calls out when he pokes Zayn in the chin with his socked toes for the third time and then totters off on his hands towards the other side of the tent. 

Zayn doesn’t talk much, just observes the group and their dynamic. They’re clearly close—all very relaxed and easy around one another, and very tactile, too. Louis collapses with his head in Liam’s lap when he’s done eating and Harry, in turn, props his feet up on Louis’ thighs. He doesn’t feel excluded, though. Just that he’s still finding his place, where he fits into this four-way dynamic that now includes a fifth person. 

The group scatters after they eat, anyway. Liam and Louis have some business to take care of and Niall says he wants to finish figuring out a song he’s been tinkering with. Zayn leaves for his room and he can feel Harry behind him, following him there. 

He lets him in because he has no reason not to, but he doesn’t look back even when he hears the door click shut. 

“How are you? Honestly?” 

Zayn sits down on the bed and finally looks at Harry, who stands by the door with his hands tucked behind his back. “I’ll be okay,” he answers and tucks his legs up underneath himself. “Did you know it was me? When Liam said he was bringing a Zayn back?” 

Harry slowly moves to sit beside him on the bed. “More or less. How many contortionists called Zayn can there be around these parts?” 

Zayn laughs. “I had almost exactly the same thought about you,” he admits. 

Harry bites his lips. “And were you pleased? When it turned out to be me?” He asks quietly. “Because you never— you never called after that night. Even though you could have.” 

“You didn’t either,” Zayn replies, picking at a loose thread on the ankle of his jeans. 

Harry shrugs. “Too nervous, I guess. You were older and I was just this dorky kid. Thought if you didn’t call, you probably didn’t want to hear from me.” 

“I did, I just…” Zayn trails off and sighs. “It’s hard to explain.” 

Harry lays a hand over Zayn’s knee. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. You’re here. I’m here. Let’s just go from there.” 

Zayn wets his lips and glances at Harry’s mouth. He’s forgotten what it tastes like and he wants so much to remember. “Harry,” he murmurs and tips his head forward slightly. 

“Zayn?” Harry’s breath is hot against Zayn’s mouth and he wants it _so_ badly. “I should—should let you get some rest. I should go.” 

Harry scrambles to his feet and leaves Zayn swaying forward into an empty space, his eyelids drooping and his mouth dropping open. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Sleep well.” 

Zayn blinks at the door as it swings shut behind Harry, his mouth still open. What was _that?_ He’s still sat there a moment later when someone knocks on the door. He stands up and moves to it, opening it up. 

Harry’s panting and his cheeks are a little pink. His lower lip is red like he’s been tugging on it. “Liam said,” Harry starts, his gaze fixed solely on Zayn’s mouth. “Liam said I shouldn’t overwhelm you. Said you’d been through a lot and I needed to not be so intense. So much—so _,_ well, _me_ .” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

Harry huffs out a breath. “But, honestly? Fuck Liam.” He grabs Zayn’s face in his hands and smashes their lips together. “Fuck Liam because I’ve missed you and I’ve missed _that_ ,” he mumbles against his mouth before kissing him again. 

Zayn curls his hands around Harry’s hips and drags him inside, pushing him up against the door to close it as he licks into his mouth. He remembers how Harry tastes now. 

*** 

It doesn’t take Zayn as long as he thought it might to find his place in the group. The four boys are easy for him to get along with and he soon finds common ground with each of them, something to bond him and that boy. 

Niall is the easiest. Niall is like pure sunshine—even on the days that it pisses down with rain and the roof of the tent feels like it might cave with it, Niall beams from the inside out. He lets Zayn sit and listen while he’s playing with a new song on the guitar or mixing some tracks for the show and he sometimes sits outside with him, even if it’s drizzling, and they’ll share a cigarette as they watch the field get progressively soggier with each passing minute. 

Louis is sharper around the edges, and for a long time, Zayn can’t figure him out. He thinks Louis might hate him, because he keeps being the butt of his pranks for his first few weeks. It’s Liam who tells him that he’s testing him, feeling him out to figure out what kind of person he is. 

Zayn reminds himself of that, every time he walks into a room and gets a bucket of water promptly poured over his head; every time he sits down only for the bottom of the chair to give out beneath his bony arse and send him crashing to the floor. 

Eventually, Louis softens and then it’s not so much _watch out for Louis!_ as _watch out for Louis and Zayn!_ Louis is the perfect remedy when Zayn’s frustrated and tired from trying out a new move that he can’t quite get; tired from an afternoon spent rehearsing and finding that it doesn’t quite flow. And he always, _always_ , has a spliff tucked away in his pocket. 

Yeah. Zayn likes Louis. 

Liam is there when Zayn needs a moment of quiet. Neither Niall or Louis is particularly good at that. Liam can say so much without speaking at all, with just his warm eyes and his supportive smile. He’s the only one Zayn lets into the tent when he rehearses for the first time, a few days after he joins them, once his bruising is almost all gone. 

He watches Zayn carefully and Zayn keeps expecting him to comment, to offer input, to criticise. When he doesn’t, Zayn asks if it’s usually one of the other boys who does the training. 

Liam frowns. “We don’t train like that. We train ourselves, each of us. Niall and Louis work together some, but otherwise it’s individual. We might ask another for their opinion, from a visual perspective, but only we know the limits and extents of our own bodies.” 

If his first rehearsal is off, Zayn excels from that point onwards. He strips away everything he’s been doing for the past few years, and goes back to the things Dave first taught him. He’s careful with his body, more so than he has been in years. He listens to it and he works with it and when Liam comes to watch him practice, he says he’s never seen anything like it. 

The only bruises on his skin these days are the ones left by Harry. 

Harry, the one secret he is carrying around. Liam’s still cautious with Zayn, although not nearly as much as he once was. He eyes Harry warily whenever the two of them are near one another, as though he’s unsure if Zayn can handle Harry yet. So, Harry and Zayn make the decision together to keep whatever they are, whatever this is, between them for the time being. 

During the day, when they’re around the other boys, it’s nothing but lingering glances and fleeting touches. It’s at night when Zayn gets Harry, _his_ Harry, to himself. Harry has slept barely a night or two in his own bed since Zayn arrived, instead sneaking into his room once the hallway between the cabin rooms is quiet and tucking his cold toes under Zayn’s shins. 

They’re calling it a secret, but Zayn isn’t entirely convinced that the others don’t know. He sees the way Louis waggles his eyebrows at him in the mornings and Niall looks far too smug when Zayn claims another bruise on his neck down to clumsiness. 

“Shame, isn’t it? All these things around trying to trip your neck up, huh?” Niall chortles and stuffs another spoonful of cornflakes into his mouth. 

Liam doesn’t say anything but he’s smarter than that, Zayn is sure. He half wonders why they bother keeping it a secret at all, but the feeling of Harry curling around him when his eyes are drooping closed is like nothing else. Of waking from his half doze to Harry pressing his cock against the small of Zayn’s back and snaking his hand down the front of his boxers. His mouth whispering a “wake up, babe” against his ear as he takes him into his hand and flicks his thumb over the tip. 

Liam does tell him the truth, though—of how he came to find Zayn, of why he was so insistent on bringing him back with him. And, just like everything in his life seems to, it all goes back to Harry. 

“It was almost two years ago, now,” Liam tells him one night, when it’s just the two of them, and the dying embers of a campfire they’d lit outside in the field. Niall’s nearby but he’s passed out, snoring with his head pillowed against his jacket. Harry and Louis have wandered off into the nearby forest “to look for elves” (Harry’s idea, with Louis following behind with his phone camera on sniggering to himself). 

“Harry was really drunk—more drunk than I’ve ever seen him. It was his birthday and Louis brought out his stupid game of a shot per year. Harry didn’t make it past fourteen before I made him stop; he looked completely gone.” Liam shakes his head and sighs. “Anyway, Lou was asking him all these dumb questions. About his first kiss, his first date, his first boyfriend, whatever. And he started talking about the night he met you. 

“For a while, we couldn’t get him past your cheekbones or your eyelashes, but eventually he told us a little more about you. About how he hoped you were okay but his sister had said she wasn’t sure you were; about how you were a contortionist and had the most amazing body he’d ever seen—or felt. We stopped him talking then, but it became a thing. Wouldn’t take more than a drink or two after that to get him reminiscing about Zayn the contortionist. Started to feel like we all knew you, not just Harry. 

“Then, when Ivy started talking about how she had this contortionist friend who she was worried about, I started to wonder. Took me a while before she’d tell me your name but then I knew it had to be the same Zayn. And Harry was getting more and more worried because his sister had been hearing things from yours, and he pulled me aside one night and said I had to find you. I had to find you and I had to bring you to us because we were the only place you wouldn’t get hurt.” 

Zayn stares into the fire, poking at the coals with the end of a long stick. “What did he say? When you said you’d found me?” 

“I didn’t tell him right away,” Liam admits. “I couldn’t be sure it was the right Zayn, and, from what Ivy said, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get you to leave _Cirque_ to join us. I didn’t tell him that night that I went to see you perform but then when I went with you to the hospital, I called him, and told him. 

“He was about ready to come down there himself if you were going to try and go back.” Liam looks up at Zayn and grins, nudging his shoulder until he turns to him. “Proper gone on you, that one. You know that, right?” 

Zayn’s cheek flush red in the darkness. “Yeah, I know,” he murmurs and bites his lip to hide his grin. 

“I told him to be careful with you when you got here. Harry can be a lot.” Liam drums his fingers off his knee. “He has been, right? He’s given you your space?” 

Zayn doesn’t answer straight away. Space isn’t what he’d say Harry’s given him, but space isn’t what he wants from Harry, even if Liam thinks it’s what’s best. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, Harry’s been great, don’t worry.” He considers telling Liam then, and he might have, too, if Harry and Louis hadn’t come flying out of the trees yelling about werewolves and startled poor Niall awake. 

*** 

Christmas passes in a flurry of a feeble, icy kind of snow, and short, dark days. Liam and Harry both go home to see their families but Louis and Niall stay at the cabins with Zayn. Louis’ family have gone away to Australia for the winter but are due back for when they officially open, early into the next year, and Niall’s home life sounds similarly challenging to Zayn’s. They pass Louis’ birthday and Christmas in a quiet, homely fashion: they string decorations up around the cabins and just about fumble through making a roast chicken without burning the whole place down. 

The weather starts to improve with the new year. It’s still cold but it’s bright and sunny and when Zayn wakes up on the morning of the 12th with Harry drooling against his collarbone, he can’t remember the last time he was so excited for his birthday. 

“Harry,” Zayn whispers and loops a finger through one of his curls, giving it a gentle tug. 

Harry grunts and mouths sloppily at Zayn’s collarbone but otherwise doesn’t stir. It isn’t often that Zayn’s awake before Harry but, then, he did wear Harry out the night before. 

Zayn smirks to himself as he remembers Harry’s head thrown back as he fucked himself onto Zayn’s cock; Zayn’s thumbs pressing marks into the laurels tattooed on his lower stomach. His half hard cock twitches against his thigh and he wriggles a little. 

Carefully, he pushes Harry over onto his back, trying not to wake him now as he sinks down his body, nestling under the blankets. Harry’s cock is awake, even if Harry isn’t, almost completely hard, thick against his thigh. Zayn wets his lips before he wraps a hand around the base and sinks his mouth over the tip. He stretches his jaw slowly, taking him deep down his throat until tears are pricking the corners of his eyes. 

“Oh,” Harry mumbles breathily above him and Zayn pushes the blankets away from his face enough to watch Harry slowly come to. His eyelids flicker open as his head tips back into the pillows, one hand reaching blindly for Zayn’s head to hold him there. “G’morning.” His voice is raspy and it makes Zayn’s cock jerk as slides his mouth off Harry’s with a dull _pop._

“Good morning.” Zayn blows cool air over Harry’s cock and watches, mesmerised, as it blurts precome over his stomach. 

“Pretty sure _my_ birthday isn’t until next month,” Harry murmurs, a smile stretching over his mouth as he looks down at Zayn. 

“Well.” Zayn clicks his tongue off the backs of his teeth. “When you put it like that…” 

Harry raises an eyebrow as Zayn shuffles up to sit on Harry’s chest. He arches his back so that he can slide his mouth back down over Harry’s cock, spreading his thighs around either side of Harry’s face. 

“Fuck, Zayn.” Harry’s tongue dips between Zayn’s ass cheeks and glides up past his balls to the base of his dick. “You’re so hot, Jesus. How long have you been thinking about doing this?” He chuckles and his breath tickles Zayn’s balls. 

Zayn is a little breathless when he pulls his mouth back to speak; the pressure of trying to keep oxygen flowing through his system when he’s curved like this with a cock stuffed in his mouth. “Been considering it,” Zayn admits, lapping at the base of Harry’s cock with the tip of his tongue. “Wasn’t sure if it would work.” He laughs and sucks him back down. 

Harry makes a sound like he’s been impaled. “It definitely works,” he wheezes and gets to work licking Zayn out with his fingernails digging crescent moons into his ass cheeks. 

Zayn can’t take Harry as deep as he could otherwise at this angle; his neck’s stretched too far and he has to keep taking shaky breaths through his nose. But Harry doesn’t seem to mind, groaning against his ass and shaking below him until he comes, his cock pulsing heavy against Zayn’s tongue. 

Zayn comes with one of Harry’s fingers pushed in between his cheeks, his other hand fisted around his cock and promptly collapses from his bridge position onto Harry’s torso. He takes a deep, gasping breath while Harry, beneath him, pets his stomach in an affectionate sort of fashion. 

A thump sounds on the door and Zayn barely has time to roll of Harry and stuff himself under a blanket before Louis throws open the door. Harry throws the duvet over his head and forms the least inconspicuous lump on the bed that Louis completely ignores as he barrels his way towards them; Niall and Liam shuffle in behind him in their pyjamas. 

“Happy birthday, Zayn!” He cries, wielding a large box. “Harry, shove over a bit, will you? There’s not room for all of us with you lying there like that.” 

Harry sheepishly peeks his head over the top of the blankets before he sits up with Zayn, the two of them squashing into the corner of the bed and keeping the blankets carefully tucked over their laps. 

“Uhm,” Harry pipes up as the three boys crowd onto the bed. “How long have you known?” 

Louis looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. “Was this supposed to be a secret? Because the walls are thin and you two fuck like rabbits.” 

Zayn cheeks turn hot as Harry groans and hides his face into his shoulder. “Well. Anyway.” Zayn clears his throat. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way?” 

“Here.” Louis thrusts the box at him, looking gleeful. It’s a box of spray paints, a whole range of colours from primaries to pastels to metallics. Niall and Liam have clubbed together to get him a decent pair of speakers for his room and Harry’s got him a red woollen sweater that he helps Zayn tug over his bare torso with a proud grin. 

“Looks good on you,” Harry murmurs and kisses the corner of his mouth. 

Louis makes a noise of distaste and starts to wriggle out of the bed. “Come on, then. It’s time to get you drunk.” 

* 

Despite Louis’ plans for the day, the drinking does not begin then. They are set to open in only a couple of weeks’ time and they still have yet to rehearse one of the group acts because of delayed shipping of some equipment. Liam’s starting to get stressed, they can all see it, so no one protests when he gently reminds them that they need to rehearse during the day, as always. 

Zayn doesn’t mind. He likes performing and he’s got his solo routine almost down to perfection now. Niall’s picked a rhythmic, sexy kind of beat for him and he feels it right down to his toes when he rehearses. 

He doesn’t mind an audience now, either. Harry comes to watch him today, his chin propped up in his hands and his elbows on his knees. “You look amazing,” he tells him honestly when Zayn’s finished and kisses him until Louis hollers that it’s time for the party to begin. 

Party is a strong word for what is the five of them lounging around on a pile of cushions they’ve dragged in to the tent. There’s beer and cheap tequila that sears Zayn’s throat when it goes down and a couple of joints between them. Zayn shares his with Harry, blowing the smoke into his mouth until Harry’s pupils are blown and he’s more in Zayn’s lap than on the floor. 

_Never Have I Ever_ is Louis’ idea, of course. Zayn’s about ready to call it a night: he’s drunk, so drunk. There’s a persistent buzzing in his ear and his limbs feel heavy and tired. And by the third round, Zayn’s pretty sure he’s heard more than he would ever have needed to about Niall’s masturbatory habits. 

“Never have I ever,” Liam declares, beer sloshing out of his bottle onto his hand. Liam’s drunk, too, which was probably part of Louis’ masterplan to get him to relax a little. “Never have I ever tried to suck my own dick.” 

Louis, Niall, and Harry take a fast, unapologetic drink. Zayn doesn’t move. 

Louis narrows his eyes at Zayn and jabs a finger in his direction. “Don’t _lie_ , Zayn. You’re not allowed to lie.” 

“Never _tried_.” Zayn shrugs, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I managed it.” 

The room falls dead silent. 

“Christ,” Niall mutters and takes another drink. “Is anyone else picturing it?” 

Louis thumps him over the head. “Keep it in your pants, Horan.” 

“I’m with you, Niall,” Harry manages, but his voice sounds tight. He stares up at Zayn with his eyes bugging out of his head. He wets his lips and then stumbles to his feet, grabbing Zayn’s arm. “We’re going to bed now,” he says loudly, depositing his mostly empty bottle onto the ground. 

“Wait, no you’re not! We’re not finished the game! And Zayn hasn’t done his mandatory birthday shots yet!” 

“Pretty sure I’ve done more than enough by now, Lou,” Zayn points out. 

“And remember how that ended last time,” Liam adds, more sober now. 

Zayn doesn’t miss how Liam’s gaze flickers between his mouth and his dick and he covers his crotch self-consciously. 

“Yeah, it brought us Zayn,” Louis huffs and folds him arms over his chest. “ _Fine_. Go back to your kinky sex lair, see if I care.” 

“You could watch if you like,” Zayn replies with a cheeky wink. 

“No, he can’t,” Harry bites out. His nails dig into Zayn’s wrist and he yanks him again, more forcefully this time. “Goodnight everyone.” 

Zayn stumbles after Harry, doing his best to keep up with his longer legs as he drags them towards Zayn’s room. “Harry,” he huffs out with a laugh. “Babe, calm down.” 

“I can’t calm down,” Harry hisses, rearranging his junk as he walks. “I can’t bloody calm down because all I can think about is you sucking your own cock! It’s obscene!” 

Zayn hums and presses up against his back as they trip into his room. “You wanna see?” He purrs and grinds his cock up against Harry’s ass. “Wanna watch me suck my own cock, babe?” 

Harry whimpers and turns around, pushing Zayn towards the bed. “Show me,” he breathes, already starting to undress himself. “Please, Zayn. I’ll do anything. Just show me.” 

Zayn doesn’t often tease but he can’t help it this time. He makes a show of it: pulling off his new sweater, and then his t-shirt. Pushing his jeans down his legs and kicking somewhere into the corner of the room. His boxer briefs go last and by then Harry’s already leant back against the door with one hand wrapped loosely around his hard cock. 

Zayn sinks back onto the bed and tucks the heels of his feet onto the bed frame. He slowly curls forward, sinking down until he can slip the head of his cock into his mouth. 

The first time he’d done it had been weird. He’d never sucked any cock before, let alone his own. He scrunched his nose up at the taste, not sure if that was what they all tasted like or if it was just himself. Harry tastes better, he knows that now, but it’s not unpleasant, by any means—shoving his own cock into his mouth. 

Especially not when Harry is letting out the most beautiful sounds from over by the door. He crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed. 

Out of the corner of Zayn’s eye, he can just see Harry watching him intently. He hears the lewd sound of Harry spitting into his hand before he starts jerking himself off intently. 

“Not gonna last,” Harry mutters. “Not when you look like that. _Fuck_ , Zayn.” 

Zayn won’t either but he doesn’t want to pull back to say as much. It’s too difficult to watch Harry at the same time but he can hear him, and that’s enough combined with the slick heat around his cock that he comes. He pulls back when he starts and it splashes over his cheek, his chin, down his jaw. 

Harry’s already spent and panting and he pulls Zayn to him once he’s unfurled, sucking the come from his skin. “Just,” he pants, biting into Zayn’s lower lip. “Just give me a minute. Then you’re going to fuck me, okay?” 

Zayn grins. “Okay.” 

*** 

The delayed equipment arrives at the end of the week: five, 30 foot tall poles that lock into a base on the ground and, with the right amount of swing, can bend as far as the ground. 

“Holy shit,” Louis breathes, his hands on his hips as he stares at the five poles once they’ve got them secured tightly into place. “Hope no one’s afraid of heights.” 

Getting up is the first challenge. Zayn, for all of his gymnastic aptitude, was never very good at rope or pole climbing when he was in school, but he fares better than most at hiking himself up the pole and fastening his feet into the holds at the top. Louis and Niall get there next and Liam has a strength advantage. Zayn tries not to giggle too hard as he watches Harry struggle to get his feet to stick to the pole enough for him to scamper his way to the top. 

They’re all panting and out of breath once they reach the top, the five of them joining hands to keep themselves upright in a perfect circle. 

“We’ll work on that bit,” Liam says decisively. “Right. Drop hands, bend from the knees and push yourselves back. Just try and get a momentum going and then we’ll worry about it looking good.” 

Zayn glances down towards the ground. He’s not scared of heights but ever since he toppled off the stage that night, the idea of falling is a little more present in his mind. Especially when he’s 30 feet in the air and attached to nothing but a bendy pole. 

Harry shoots him a thumbs up and then swings himself backwards, letting out a whoop. Niall and Louis follow after and then it’s just him and Liam. The other three are already pinging back into the air when Zayn pushes his weight down and swings backwards. 

He can’t stop the rush of adrenalin that surges through his body or the laugh it pushes from his lips. The air swoops past him as he flies backwards through the air. He stretches his arms behind him and his fingertips brush the ground before he’s hurtling upwards again. 

Two hands are ready to grab him either side: Harry and Louis. He clings onto their hands and the five boys look around at each other. 

“Niall,” Liam pants. “Music?” 

Niall hits a button on the little remote he’d managed to fashion into a sort of watch and a beat fills the air. 

“On three,” Liam yells over the music. “One!” 

“Two!” Niall and Louis cry. 

Harry and Zayn grin at one another. “Three!” 

* 

Zayn’s legs feel like jelly when he finally slides down the pole to the ground. His heart has never beat so hard in his chest and he’s breathless. 

Harry collapses into his side, his hand fisting into his t-shirt and drawing it up from his waist. “I feel like I’m burning up,” he whispers, like a secret, even though the other boys are too far away to hear. “I feel so good, Zayn.” 

Zayn twists a hand into Harry’s curls and kisses him hard. “Me too.” He grins against his mouth. “Got me kind of worked up, you know? That weird?” 

Harry laughs and presses their hips together. He’s half hard in his joggers and Zayn wants nothing more than to drop to his knees and put his mouth on him right here and now. “Nope. S’not weird.” 

Zayn’s already lost his t-shirt by the time they make it to the cabins and his own joggers get dumped outside of the door to his room before they go in. 

Harry pushes Zayn down to sit on the edge of the bed and tugs at the waistband of his boxer briefs. He kneels on the floor and pushes his face into the crook of Zayn’s thigh. He bites at Zayn’s skin through the thin material of his underwear. 

“Harry,” Zayn breathes and twists his fingers into Harry’s hair that’s knotted up in colourful scarves. He spreads his legs wide and cants his hips upwards. “Please.” 

Harry’s eyes are blown black and his smile is devilish when he tips his head up to look at him. He pulls back Zayn’s underwear and takes his time to slide them down his legs and toss them to one side. He skims his fingers over the insides of Zayn’s thighs and blows cool air over the swollen tip of Zayn’s cock. 

The first time Harry sucked him off, Zayn just _lost_ it. The tight heat of his mouth enveloping his cock; the velvety soft touch of his tongue; the swell of his cock against Harry’s cheek. 

“What are you thinking about?” Harry murmurs as precome blurts out of the head of Zayn’s cock. He flicks his tongue over the tip to collect it. 

Zayn shudders. “You,” he replies in a raspy voice. “Always you.” 

Harry smiles and sinks down over him. He folds his hands behind his back and his curls fall forward as his nose hits Zayn’s skin. He makes it look so easy; his throat naturally adapted to taking far larger objects deep than Zayn’s cock. 

Zayn cups the back of Harry’s head and fucks his hips forward. His head tips back as he pants; his hips come right off the bed as he rocks into the wet heat. He can’t last. He never does with Harry’s mouth on him. 

Harry pulls back, breathless, and pushes up onto the bed. He pushes Zayn back and crawls over him. Strands of hair fall into his face and his hands are firm on Zayn’s shoulders. “Want to try something, if you’re up for it?” 

Zayn groans as Harry’s thigh presses between his legs. He’s tensed up right down to his toes, so desperate for some kind of release. “Reckon I’m pretty up for it, babe. What did you have in mind?” 

Harry bites his lip before he sits up a bit and unwraps the two scarves from his hair. 

Zayn reaches up to brush the curls back from his face, tucking them behind Harry’s ear gently. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs with a soft smile. 

Harry’s already pink cheeks glow brightly and he leans down to kiss him sweetly on the mouth. He lets out a breath and cups a hand around Zayn’s wrist. “Can I tie you up?” 

Zayn groans loudly and gives his aching cock a quick squeeze. “Yeah. Yeah, please.” 

It isn’t until Harry’s tying his wrists to the headboard that it occurs to him. “Harry?” 

“Hmm?” 

Zayn extends his leg upwards, careful not to kick Harry in the face, and grabs hold of his ankle with his hand. “Do my legs too.” 

Harry blinks at him, at the way Zayn’s curled his spine so that his wrists can meet his ankles, leaving his ass raised upwards and exposed. “Fuck,” Harry breathes, getting distracted for a moment as he grazes a hand over Zayn’s ass. “Okay.” 

It’s intense, more so than anything Zayn’s ever felt. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s so exposed or if it’s because of the contorted position he’s in, but everything feels ten times sharper, ten times more acute in this position. 

When Harry slips the first finger into him, Zayn feels it right up his spine and his breath hitches so violently that Harry pauses, convinced he’s hurt him. 

Zayn’s breath is going out in shallow pants and when Harry pushes in, bare and pulsing inside of him, his vision goes hazy and he’s pretty sure he stops breathing altogether. “Oh, fuck,” he slurs, his tongue slack in his mouth. “Fuck, Harry.” 

“I’ve got you,” Harry murmurs, the rings on his fingers blissfully cool against Zayn’s calves as he fucks into him. His hips smack obscenely loud against Zayn’s ass and each punch against his prostate feels like lightning right through him. “You’re so gorgeous, Zayn. So perfect—all _mine_.” 

Zayn’s cock smears precome against his stomach at that. “Say it again.” 

“Mine,” Harry growls and bites into the skin just above the back of Zayn’s knee. 

Zayn’s own spunk nearly hits in the goddamn eye, but it’s _so_ worth it. 

*** 

“You’ll be back in time for dinner, right? It’s supposed to rain later and I don’t want either of you catching a chill.” 

Zayn and Harry exchange a look in the backseat of Liam’s car. 

“Yes, mum. We’ll take the bus that leaves after six and walk from the bridge up to the camp.” Harry’s smirk is evident in his tone. 

“Fancy giving us some money for the bus, mum?” Zayn adds and leans forward to hook his chin over the front seat. 

Liam pulls the car up outside a small bakery and grunts at them. “Cheeky sods,” he mutters and rubs his hands off on his jeans. He looks back at them. “You have got money for the bus, though, yeah?” 

Zayn snorts and presses his face into Harry’s shoulder. 

“Alright, that’s it. Out you get.” Liam folds his arms across his chest. “And I want some rhubarb and custard bonbons from the sweet shop for your cheek.” 

Harry manages to contain his laughter until they’re out of the car; there are nearly tears in his eyes from holding it back. He folds over double once they’re on the pavement and clutches onto Zayn’s arm for support. “Oh my god, did you hear him? _I hope you’ve got sensible shoes if you’re going to be walking around all day._ ” 

Zayn’s stomach hurts from laughing. “Stop,” he wheezes and shakes his head. He hauls Harry up and pulls him into his chest. He settles his hands on the small of his back and tips their heads together. “Stop. I can’t kiss you when you’re neighing like a horse.” 

Harry huffs out a breath over Zayn’s lips and wraps his arms around Zayn’s shoulders. “I’m doing no such thing. I have a perfectly dignified laugh.” 

Zayn does an impression of Harry’s laugh. He’s the one laughing when Harry slots their mouths together and sucks the air out of his lungs. 

* 

It starts to rain earlier than Liam had predicted and their thin t-shirts are quickly damp and clinging to their skin. They rush into the nearest little tea shop, hands interlaced as they sprint indoors and take a moment to catch their breath. 

“Look at the state of you two!” A grey-haired, boisterous lady makes her way over to them. “Get yourselves sat down away from the door and I’ll get you some tea.” She winks and hustles them over towards a table in the corner. 

Harry curls into his side when they sit down onto the upholstered loveseat and wraps a hand over Zayn’s thigh. “Zayn,” Harry murmurs and presses his nose into Zayn’s neck. “Mm’cold.” 

Zayn wraps an arm around his shoulders and kisses the top of his head. “I’ve got you, love.” 

Harry smiles into his skin of his neck and tucks a kiss there. 

They order scones with jam and a mountain of clotted cream to go with their tea. Zayn’s stomach feels like it might explode by the time they’re done but that doesn’t stop him from licking the last traces of jam from his fingertips. 

“You shouldn’t be allowed to do that in public,” Harry mutters from behind his tea cup that’s tucked delicately between his large hands. “It’s indecent.” 

Zayn grins and makes a show of pulling his fingers from his mouth with a dull _pop_. 

“Are you the boys from the camp down the road? The circus boys?” 

Zayn tenses and Harry’s hand squeezes his knee under the table. 

“Yes, we are,” Harry responds with his head held high. “Not long now until we open up for audiences.” 

The woman beams. “Good. It’s about time we had something going on around here to liven things up a bit. I’m going to bring my grandchildren: little Jeff’s determined to become an acrobat. At least, he is this month.” 

Zayn’s shoulders slump and he casts Harry a small smile. “We could give him a tour of the tent, if he’d like,” he offers. 

Harry nods in agreement. 

The woman puts her hands on her hips and looks at the two of them; the only two in the tiny teashop. “Lovely young men,” she declares. “You wait here.” She bustles off into the kitchen. 

“This is the part of the horror film when she comes back wielding a large knife,” Harry whispers and waggles his eyebrows. 

Zayn pings an errant crumb off the table in his direction. 

Rather than a knife, she reappears with a large pastry box crammed full of baked goods. “They’ll only go to waste if you don’t take them; it’s been a slow day. Take them—a group of young men, I’m sure you’ll get through these no bother.” 

“Really, you don’t have to—” Harry starts to say. 

But Zayn interrupts him. “Thank you so much. That’s so kind of you.” 

* 

The rain has eased off by the time they step back out onto the street; the roads are left glistening slightly in the dying daylight. They haul their box of goods to the mostly empty bus and sit up at the back and snog like teenagers the whole way. 

The path up the camp is muddy and slippy; treacherous at dusk. They make their way carefully back to the tent which is a welcome warmth from the evening cool that’s setting in. 

“Finally,” Liam breathes out when they walk in. “I was starting to get worried.” 

Niall cocks his head, sniffs, and points at the box. “You brought food.” 

Louis swings out of nowhere and is off and running with the box before anyone can stop him. 

*** 

Zayn crosses his legs up underneath himself on Harry’s bed and watches as he moves around the room, tucking things into a tattered rucksack. “I’ll miss you,” Zayn says to the quiet room, a half smile on his face. 

Harry chuckles and crosses over to him. He leans down and pecks his lips, once, twice. “It’s only one night, babe. I’ll be back tomorrow.” 

“I know.” Zayn pouts petulantly and tosses a dirty sock at Harry’s retreating back. “But you’ve spoiled me. I’ve gotten used to sleeping next to you.” 

“You could always come with me,” Harry suggests, looking around at him with a hopeful gaze. It’s not the first time he’s said this. “You’ve met Gemma, anyway—” 

“Yeah, _years_ ago.” 

“—and my mum and Robin know all about you and they’re dying to meet you.” 

Zayn squirms, twisting his fingers together. “I want to meet them, too. Just—bit nerve-wracking, you know.” He plasters a fake grin over his mouth. “Hi, I guess I’m sort of dating your son, I’ll just be staying the night now, too. No funny business, promise!” 

“Well.” Harry licks his lips. “You could always go see your family.” 

Zayn clears his throat and sinks back to lean against the wall. 

“I’ll take your silence as you haven’t spoken to them, then.” Harry sighs softly and stuffs a pair of boxers into his bag. 

“I’ve spoken to Don,” Zayn mutters. They speak every week; she’s coming to the dress rehearsal tomorrow. He’d hoped Waliyha and Safaa might come with her, but Doniya admitted she wasn’t sure how to make that happen without telling their parents where she was taking them. He’d received a birthday present from the girls, too: a haphazardly taped up box of homemade sweets, woolly socks and a beanie with a knitted bobble on top. 

“If you would just _try_ , then—” 

“It’s not that simple!” Zayn snaps. “It’s never been that simple, not like it was for you.” He pauses for a beat. “I saw you—after that party. I saw you with all your friends and how they _adored_ you.” 

Harry stands still across the room. “Why didn’t you say anything?” He asks quietly. “You just disappeared after that night.” 

Zayn scrubs a hand through the longer part of his hair. “I’m not like you, Harry. I can’t just make everyone fall in love with me like you do.” 

Harry shakes his head and yanks the zip of his rucksack closed. “That’s not your problem, Zayn. Your problem is that every time things don’t go your way or they get even remotely difficult, you stop trying. You just give up and sulk about it and don’t even think that maybe if you put some fucking effort in, you might be able to make things better.” 

He stuffs his beanie onto his head and shoulders his rucksack. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he mutters and reaches for the door. He hesitates there, and looks back towards Zayn. “You’re wrong, by the way.” 

Zayn stares at him with a frown. 

“You made me fall in love with you.” Harry sighs and closes the door with a soft click behind him. 

*** 

Zayn doesn’t sleep well that night. It’s not just the absence of Harry beside him, although he’s cold without him and he shudders when he reaches across the bed and his arm connects only with a lumpy pillow. His argument with Harry plays over in his mind well into the early hours of the morning. He snatches a few hours once the sun’s already risen but then is awoken by someone knocking on his door. 

He lifts his head blearily from the pillow and rubs at his eyes. “‘llo?” He calls out. His eyes flick over to the calendar on the wall by the door. Today’s the dress rehearsal, the last full run, for an audience of their families and friends, before they open for real tomorrow. His stomach swoops and he pushes the slightly nauseated sensation down as far as he can. 

“Rise and shine.” Ivy’s hair is a vibrant red now, when she pokes her head around the door. 

“What are you doing here?” Zayn exclaims, stumbling free from his blankets so he can go and hug her. 

“Liam invited me.” She pinches Zayn’s bare hip with her sharp nails and Zayn jerks. “Clearly the thought hadn’t crossed _your_ mind, huh?” 

Zayn flushes. “Thought you wouldn’t be able to come.” He shrugs. 

Ivy tugs him back into her, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. “Dickhead,” she whispers affectionately and smacks a kiss to the side of his head. “Come on. I brought my tattoo gun. Niall’s whimpering and hiding behind the sofa but Liam and Louis have already decided what they want.” 

Zayn grabs a sweatshirt and tugs it over his head before following her out to the tent. Everything’s set up for the show, now: the audience seats wrap around the entire circle of the tent, and the stage has been erected and safety checked where it sits in the centre. The flexible poles for their finale are tucked away at the sides and will be fitted in between sections of the show. 

The earlier nerves he’d felt melt away into something different. Standing in the tent, bathed in a warm red glow, he’s excited. He’s got anticipation bubbling under his skin and he realises just how proud he is. Of himself, and of the other boys, and of the show they’ve put together. 

“Fuck off, Louis, I’m not going near that thing!” Niall shrieks from the general direction of the sofa. Ivy wasn’t kidding: he’s sat behind it with a cushion stuffed over his face. 

Louis cackles from where he sits, next to where Ivy’s set up her tattooing equipment. He’s sketching something onto a scrap of paper and when he’s done, he studies it with a look of satisfaction. “Can I go first?” 

Ivy tattoos the five-spoke wheel onto the space between his shoulder blades while Niall slaps his hands over his ears and sings loudly to cover the sound of the buzzing tattoo gun. 

Zayn goes next, so Liam can try and calm Niall down. He hands Ivy the lotus design he’s been fiddling with for the past few weeks and she sets to work inking it onto his arm. 

He admires it once she’s done, even wrapped up under the plastic. A car drove up outside while he was sat, so he’s not entirely surprised when Harry walks into the tent, his family in tow. 

“Harry, you want one?” Ivy calls out to him from where she’s finishing up Liam’s, a fourth arrow on his arm to join the other three. 

“One for Zayn,” Liam explained with a small smile that flickers between Zayn and Harry. 

Harry gives Ivy a wave as he walks to Zayn. “Not today. Thanks, though.” He touches his fingertips very lightly to the covering on Zayn’s arm. “What did you get?” 

“A lotus flower,” Zayn replies. “For a new beginning.” 

“It’s beautiful.” Harry draws his hand back. “Zayn, there’s something I need to tell you.” 

“Let me go first. Please?” Zayn doesn’t wait for an answer even though Harry opens his mouth to protest. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I’m sorry for how I acted yesterday and you— You were right, is the thing. I can be such a stubborn git, and the thing is—” 

“Zayn, about that—” 

“Harry, please, just let me get this out—” 

“Hi, Zayn.” 

Zayn stops short. He looks past Harry’s shoulder to where Gemma, Anne, and Robin are gathered, next to his own family. His mum, his dad, and his sisters. 

“Harry invited us to come today,” his mum says, stepping towards him. She looks at him carefully for a moment before she smiles wetly and offers her hands to him. “You look well, sunshine. You look so much better.” 

Zayn glances at Harry. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs. “I know it wasn’t my place but they’re your family. I wanted them to be here for you and I think you wanted it, too.” He smiles, a little sadly. “I’ll see you later, Zayn.” He squeezes Zayn’s arm and moves off to his own family, ushering them out of the tent. 

Behind him, Zayn hears Ivy and the other boys discreetly slip out, too. 

“Zayn!” Safaa cries and tugs at his arm. “Can we have a tour? We never did get to see the last place and you _promised._ ” 

Zayn blinks and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, Saf, of course. Let me just do one thing first?” 

She pauses, waiting, and he doesn’t hesitate to tug her into his arms and hug her tight. She squeals and shoves at him. “ _Zayn_ ,” she whines. “Your hair’s getting in my mouth.” 

Zayn laughs as he straightens up and then goes to his mum, slowly moving into her arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry that Harry had to do for me what I was too scared to.” 

His mum holds him tight and cups the back of his neck. He feels his dad press a hand to the middle of his back, and his sisters crowd around them. “I’m sorry we ever made you feel like you weren’t special in the right way. We never stopped caring about you, love. Not for one second.” 

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut and, for a moment, just lets his family hold him. 

*** 

The dress rehearsal wasn’t the unprecedented disaster that Liam feared, but it wasn’t without its hiccups. Fortunately, it was only to a select audience: among which sat Zayn’s family, Ivy, and Dave, who are all coming to the opening show, too. 

Zayn just needs to make sure Doniya and Dave aren’t sat together again tonight because he isn’t okay with watching her flirt with his old gymnastics teacher. 

No one got injured and nothing broke, is the main thing. With the exception of the one of the spotlights that shattered upon being turned on for the first time, and caused everyone to scream—none quite so loud as Niall, though, who then shuffled off to fix it, red-cheeked and muttering to himself. 

Tonight, though, is what counts. Zayn studies his reflection in the mirror. Gone is the awful spandex and lycra that he’d stuffed his way into at _Cirque_. Here, he is wearing a pair of black fitted jeans made from a stretchy enough material that they can flex and move with him. His torso is bare and his hair falls in perfect waves in front of his face—and hopefully held set with enough wax and hairspray that it shouldn’t fall into his eyes during the performance. His feet are bare and he wriggles them against the cold floor. 

It’s nearly time. 

It’s not just a big crowd, it’s a sold-out one. Every seat in the tent is taken and the atmosphere is thick with anticipation. The lights are dim, a beautiful red hue that’s made hazy from the smoke effects. 

Zayn watches as Harry fills a small silver flask with rum and tucks it into his pocket. He lines up all of his props for the show: his batons that will flame from either end; three long, sharp swords of varying lengths; and a neon tube that for all Zayn admires Harry’s talents, he cannot watch him stick down his throat for fear that he will actually hurt himself. 

Zayn walks over to him, rolling his shoulders as he goes to warm up a little. He places his hands on Harry’s waist lightly and kisses the shell of his ear. “Hi.” 

Harry had slept in his room again the night before but they hadn’t really spoken more than a few words to each other since he returned with their families. 

“Hi,” Harry breathes out and tilts his head back to Zayn. 

He looks beautiful. His curls are loose around his shoulders and he, too, is shirtless save for a dark fur vest that looks luxurious and expensive against his skin. 

“Are you excited?” 

Harry nods, a dimple pressing into his cheek. “Are you?” 

Zayn grins. “Sort of feels like the first time all over again, you know?” 

Harry hums. “It is, in a way. It’s the first time on your own terms.” 

Zayn squeezes his waist and presses a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth. 

“Zayn, about yesterday—” 

Zayn shushes him firmly. “No, don’t apologise. I need to thank you for what you did. And I need to tell you something that I tried to yesterday if you’d have let me get a word in edgeways.” 

Even in the dim light, Zayn seems the soft blush that takes over Harry’s cheeks. “What is it?” 

The first beats of the music start up and the crowd cheers enthusiastically. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” Niall booms over the crowd. 

Zayn presses his mouth to Harry’s ear. “I love you, too.” 

“Zayn, come on,” Liam hisses, tugging Zayn away from Harry before he can respond. 

But Zayn still gets to see the way he smiles, the way he looks at Zayn and blows him a kiss as he goes. 

* 

Zayn starts the show: he starts alone, just him, his body, and the stage. 

He gives the audience a coquettish smile when he first tips his face up to them and takes in the rows upon rows of people. He can’t make out faces with the lights blinding him; he can just see the silhouettes of figures down the rows. 

He starts off slow, easy: rolling his shoulders out and in again, the audience giving a small gasp of surprise at each new wonder. He flexes out and starts to curl, starts to shift and move on the stage. The beat of the music picks up and he moves with it. 

Adrenalin buzzes under his skin and when he’s done, breathless with a sheen of sweat against his skin, the audience comes alive with such enthusiasm that he thinks his heart might soar right out of his chest. 

* 

Zayn watches the intermediate sections, when he isn’t needed to help with the stage, tucked just out of sight. He watches as Niall and Louis do flips around one another: they delight the crowd as they tease and trick one another, hopping on their hands from one balance beam to another. Liam goes next, and puts his impressive muscles to good use, until the audience is catcalling and hooting for him. 

And he watches, barely breathing, when Harry goes forward. Zayn’s seen it a dozen times before and he’ll see it a dozen times yet, but it still makes him breath catch in his throat as he watches him. He squeezes his eyes shut for some parts, and relies on the audience’s gasps and cheers to tell him when he may open them again. 

Zayn steps forward when it comes to the fire-breathing, the final section of Harry’s routine. He curls himself forward and rolls into a human wheel and twirls towards Harry on the other side of the stage. 

“My glamorous assistant,” Harry purrs and winks at the audience. He has them right in the palm of his hand. He shrugs off the fur vest and slips it over Zayn’s arms instead when he stands up straight. “If you would be so kind.” 

The lights go out. Zayn flares a match from the box in his pocket and touches it to the end of Harry’s baton, one end, then the other. The fire illuminates their faces on the dark stage. 

Zayn leaves Harry there, centre stage, with an audience captivated and giddy as they wait for what he will do next. Zayn descends and stands by the bottom of the stairs and watches as Harry swallows one end of the flaming baton whole, the other end lighting his face. 

He removes the baton and lunging forward, like an ethereal, fierce dragon, breathes a perfect jet of fire into the air. Harry chuckles, twirling the baton between his fingers, both ends still burning. “Shall I do that again?” He asks the audience with his charming, incandescent smile. 

* 

Zayn starts the show alone, and ends the show alongside his four boys, 30 feet in the air with their hands clasped into a perfect circle. As they meet in the middle for the last time, sweaty hands interlinked, they look around at one another. 

Down below, Zayn knows, are his mum and dad and sisters, and Ivy, and Dave, and everyone else who means so much to the five of them. But up here, poised in the air, is his true family, the one he found for himself. 

They look around at each other one last time and in unison, they cry: “we are _Vagabond!_ ” 

The tent goes pitch black and the crowd below them roars. 


End file.
